To Ourselves We Must be True
by Juubi-K
Summary: A Space Marine force responds to a distress call from an isolated colony, only to find a fugitive with a terrible secret.  Turn him over and live, or protect him and die.  See now the choice they made.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer **– I don't own this. Games Workshop does. If you spot anything that you know belongs to Games Workshop, then I don't own it. It's that simple.

_-_

_And Guilliman spoke unto them, saying "We are the light in the darkness. We are the hope where all is despair. We are his hand that shall reach across the Universe. Where there is strife, we shall bring unity. Where there is ignorance, we shall bring the Emperor's wisdom. Where there is conflict, we shall bring the Emperor's Peace." _

-

For an instant, matter and energy were one.

A moment of unity and of deadly danger, as the boundary between the physical universe and the Immaterium was pierced.

But as the portal stabilised, so the danger was averted. Through the portal slid the objects, gracefully from warp to space, energy to matter, the portal closing after them.

There were three ships. The Strike Cruiser _Abukama_ and two Hunter class Destroyers,the _Nachikaze_ and the _Hayate,_ of the Space Marine Chapter known as the Crimson Guardians.

On the Command deck of the _Abukama_, Brother-Sergeant Hikaru gazed through the forward viewport at the planet before him.

It was the reason why he was here. It was the reason that the entire Third Company of the Chapter was present in this system.

The planet was called 'Picard's Landing', a green orb serenely rotating about the ageing yellow star of System N4822356541Q. It was an isolated outpost of no particular value, except to those for who it was home.

Nevertheless, the distress signal had come and could not be ignored. Some Chapters would ignore the request if they had 'pressing business' to attend to.

Not the Crimson Guardians. Their oaths were to the Emperor, to honour, and to all the Emperor's subjects. They would never refuse a cry for help, unlike the secretive Dark Angels. They would never attack the helpless, unlike the ruthless Marines Malevolent.

Therefore the Space Marines of the Third Company had answered the call.

And so here he was.

"Noble Lord…"

A voice distracted Hikaru from his reverie. He half-turned to see Ship-Master Saburota, standing at a half-bow.

"Ship-Master," he acknowledged, addressing the Chapter-Serf by his title.

"Lord Senshiro summons you, my Lord."

"Very well Ship-Master." Hikaru gave Saburota a brief nod and then strode towards the rear of the Command deck.

Chapter-Serfs, though mere servants to their Space Marine lords, were to be treated with good care and respect. Without them, the Chapter could not function. Saburota deserved particular respect, having risen to command the crew of a Strike Cruiser, which included a full parish of servitors. While he had no authority over Space Marines, he was nonetheless important.

Hikaru had known the Ship-master for eight years. A servant of his rank could only have been a failed aspirant, and he sometimes wondered how the faithful, competent Saburota had failed to become a Space Marine.

Not that the Ship-Master ever seemed bothered by it.

-

"Brothers, hear now our orders." Brother-Captain Senshiro was a magnificent presence, clad in ancient artificer armour painted in the Chapter's sacred colours. His piercing eyes swept over the assembled Sergeants.

"At 23:30 hours last eve, contact with the planetary command post was lost. The final message was a pulse-beam transmission received when we entered the system."

Pulse-beam transmissions were the fastest form of telecommunication after telepathy, yet it would have taken years for the transmission to even leave the solar system. It was generally used as a last resort, if no astropaths were available.

And all present knew what that might mean.

"From what information has been gleaned from the transmission, the attackers make use of large repulsor-craft, against which the PDF's weaponry had little effect." The Captain gestured to a servitor working at the hologram projector. The cyborg made no response, but the hologram projector hummed into life. It showed an image of what appeared to be a human, wearing a tight-fitting blue costume.

"These are shown acting as infantry," the Captain explained. "We know little else about them, so I expect the proper caution from you all. I have authorised the equipage of orbital strike homers should you encounter one of the enemy repulsor-craft. The firepower of our sacred vessels may be necessary in order to deal with them."

None of them showed any fear, any feeling at all, but Hikaru knew the truth all the same. They were wondering if a single Company was enough to deal with this threat.

The Crimson Guardians did not follow the Codex Astartes to the letter. Although a Company was approximately the size specified in the Codex, they were not specialised in the same manner. They were battle forces in themselves, each with its own Terminators, Veterans, Assault Squads, Devastators and vehicles. If these enemies would require orbital bombardments to defeat them, then a single Company might prove insufficient.

But they were not intimidated. The Crimson Guardians would fight to the death to punish the murderers of the helpless, no matter what they were or how much power they wielded.

"This is all we know of them," the Captain went on. "Therefore let caution temper your courage and let wisdom guide your actions. We shall make our landing at the planetary command post and increase our understanding of the situation." He moved in front of the hologram in order to have their full attention.

"Pass this knowledge on to your squads, and then bring them for absolution to Chaplain Yukio in the shrine. We go to battle to avenge those whom the alien has slain." He laid his clenched right fist over his heart in the Chapter's formal salute.

"Warriors of honour! Avengers of the fallen!" he roared exultantly.

"Guardians without hate! Our cause is just!" they chanted in reply, returning the salute.

-

The one-hundred marines of the Third Company knelt on the cold steel floor of the Shrine, clad in their dark red power armour, staring forwards to the front, where the icons were arrayed. The Imperial Eagle hung in pride of place, with the Chapter's own symbols arrayed around it. The side walls were painted with enormous murals depicting the deeds of past Crimson Guardians, with another mural at the front under the Eagle, depicting the battle between the Emperor and the traitor Horus. Clusters of flickering candles provided illumination, and the smell of holy incense hung in the air.

"Lux Imperatoris luciat omnes," Chaplain Yukio intoned piously in High Gothic.

"Fortitum sacrum dona eis, Domine in Terram" the marines chanted in reply.

"Imperator dominus eternam."

"Imperator defendit triumphans."

Chaplain Yukio stood silent as the banners of the Third Company were brought forward to receive consecration. Brother Shirai, the Icon Bearer, carried the Company's Standard, the Sergeants each brought their Squad Icons. The Chaplain touched his Crozius Arcanum to the pole of each banner in turn, saying "In nomine Imperatoris, animus effet."

As this was carried out, servitors walked along the lines of kneeling marines, anointing their brows with holy water. Once this was done, more servitors did likewise, returning to the marines their freshly-consecrated weapons.

Once these sacred tasks were complete, Chaplain Yukio razed his Crozius Arcanum in benediction.

"Imperator Vobiscum, domines pugnae."

"Ad majorum Imperati gloriam" the marines responded, completing the Rite of Preparation. As one they stood up, and then filed out by squad, singing "My all for thee, Imperator" until all had left.

-

The wind whistled, blowing at the robes that covered his black armour.

Adamar could hear the wind, as well as he could feel the mist-shrouded ground beneath his feet.

What he could not hear, however, was _them_.

He had enough problems without them, as he had long before he came to this world. There were powerful forces pursuing him, forces that would stop at nothing to apprehend him and thwart his mission.

His sacred mission. His necessary mission. The mission that had kept him alive for all this time.

He was not sure for how long he had been wandering between the stars. It felt like a thousand years, maybe more.

Becoming stranded on this planet was one of the biggest setbacks of his lonely Crusade. Unless someone came, he would be stuck here indefinitely.

Stranded, on the fringe of Imperial space. Unable to pass on the terrible truth that he had carried for so long. The truth that others wished to hide, the truth that set him against his own brethren, for they would do anything rather than let the truth be known.

Satisfied that there were no enemies close by, Adamar knelt on the frozen turf and offered a silent prayer to the Emperor.

_"Immortal Lord, give me the strength to endure." _He also prayed to…

No.

He could not. Not after everything that had happened. Not after what had been done ten thousand years ago.

At least, not until his task was completed.

It was no small thing to live for three hundred years. One quickly grew accustomed to solitude, for what point was there in seeking companionship from those who were not like himself? Normal humans were frail, temporary beings. Though a few had wealth or connections enough to afford life-extending treatments, the lives of most humans seemed to short to him, so painful, so desperate, so rushed.

It was why he was who he was. If he could take just one cup of suffering from the hands of beleaguered humanity, then every sacrifice would be worthwhile.

Then he heard it. He could almost sense it. The minute vibrations in the air.

He flung himself sideways. It whistled past him, tearing a hole in his hood as it went. Adamar rolled to his feet, his senses alert, looking all around, straining his enhanced eyes and ears to detect the foe.

There they were, appearing out of the mist. Light-footed, clad in pale blue, carrying exquisite and vicious-looking close combat weapons.

They looked vaguely like Eldar, and might fool a casual observer, but he knew that they were not. Agile though they were, they lacked the effortless grace with which the Eldar bore themselves.

And besides, if they were real Eldar he would be dead by now.

They walked towards him, stylised faces impassive.

"Cycle vision 360 degrees," Adamar whispered. He saw that there were more of them to the sides and behind, making twelve in all.

This made no sense. When he had fought them before, they would simply charge him, even in a situation like this. It was unlike them to take the time to surround him.

Unless their mission had changed.

Unless they were here to take him alive.

_"Fools," _he thought, with what might have been a hint of amusement. _"They killed everyone else. And now I'm all that's left and they want information." _

Adamar hefted his boltgun and took aim at one of the approaching enemies. The HUD in his helmet told him that he had twenty rounds left. Glancing momentarily at the boltgun, he noted another clip in the auto-reloader. No shortage, but nor was it an excuse for wastage. He would make every shot count.

He pulled the trigger. With a crack and a whoosh the bolt went on its way. He saw the target try to dodge, but too late. The bolt struck it in the shoulder and exploded, flinging it backwards in a mist of what might have been blood.

As though sensing that their prey would not go without a fight, the remaining humanoids charged. They closed the distance rapidly, coming closer and closer as Adamar fired again and again. Two more went down, blasted apart by the explosive bolter shells, but they continued undeterred.

Two of them grabbed his boltgun and tried to wrench it from his grasp. Two more grabbed his other arm, while the remaining enemies piled onto him, trying to bring him down by sheer weight.

Adamar staggered, flailing his pinioned arms in a futile attempt to shake them off. It was obvious now that they were trying to take him alive. Their weight made his knees buckle, forcing him slowly down. No matter how much he struggled, how much he thrashed, they would not give in.

As they overwhelmed his body, despair began to overwhelm his soul, the voices that had haunted him for three centuries. The voices that told him to give up, to lie down and die.

They told him that he could not win. They told him that it was hopeless, that the entire universe was arrayed against him, that the Emperor had turned from him."

But he could not let them win. He could not be defeated now. He could not die on this faraway world, with the terrible truth unspoken.

He rose like a phoenix. With a shout of fury he let go of the boltgun and brought his now free hand around to strike one of the humanoids in the face. The delicate features caved in under the impact and the humanoid fell twitching to the ground.

Another enemy tried to grab his bloodstained arm, but as it tried Adamar thrust his hand forward caught the enemy's neck. He squeezed, ignoring its attempts to break free, then twisted quickly and violently. With a crack, the thing went limp.

Tossing the body away, Adamar reached over his shoulder. Ignoring the humanoids as they pulled at his arm, he grasped the hilt of his chainsword.

He pulled the weapon free, thumbed the switch, and brought it down on one of the humanoids he had earlier dislodged. The jagged teeth cut straight through neck and shoulder, whirring and grinding, spraying the 'blood' everywhere.

The rest was a blur, his mind shrouded in a red mist. He heard only the roar of the chainsword, the wet crunching as the blade went through flesh and bone.

Strike, and again, and again. The strange creatures were not living beings, but targets to be killed.

Yet even as they died, even as they were hewn limb from limb, they tried to restrain him. And so they died, obedient to the last, following their order to take him alive at any cost.

Then all of a sudden, there were no more enemies.

The haze faded. Adamar looked around and saw only death. There they lay, some twitching nauseatingly. Their blood, for want of a better word, was splashed over his robes, over the bodies, over the frozen turf.

Adamar bent down and picked up one of the wicked-looking weapons, it's user's hand and forearm still attached. It consisted of two blades, one above and one below the hilt, forming an S shape. The blades were smooth, slightly curved, and extremely sharp.

He had seen what they did to the humans on this planet. He had seen those blades slice clean through flesh and bone, yet they did not seem to be powered in any way.

He tore some cloth from the uniforms of the dead humanoids and wrapped up the weapon and the arm. One look at the severed appendage had confirmed his suspicions. The Adeptus Mechanicus would be very interested in these trophies, and it was his duty to get it to them as soon as possible, if his mission allowed it.

After stowing the surreal parcel in his pack and sheathing the chainsword, he walked over to his fallen bolter and bent to pick it up.

As he straightened up he heard another noise. A noise that had become horribly familiar. Soft, high-pitched humming. The sound of a repulsor-craft.

It was not enough that they send their servants after him. Now they were coming in force. Evidently they wanted him badly.

With the strange and terrible sound ringing in his ears, Adamar hurried away.

-

(First chapter completed. I used Latin for the Rite because Latin, or words that look like Latin, keep popping up all over Warhammer 40000, so it might be similar to High Gothic. Say so if you would like translations, and any thoughts are much appreciated. Please review if you want me to carry on.)


	2. Death from Above

(Thankyou to everyone who reviewed. For anyone who wanted translations, here they are. This is what I intended them to mean:

Lux Imperatoris Luciat omnes – May the light of the Emperor shine on you all.

Fortitum sacrum dona eis, Domine in Terram – Give us holy strength, Lord on Earth.

Imperator dominus eternam – The Emperor rules eternally.

Imperator defendit triumphans – The Emperor defends triumphantly.

In nomine Imperatoris, animus effet – In the name of the Emperor, lift up our hearts.

Imperator vobiscum, domines pugnae – Emperor be with you, Lords of Battle.

Ad Majorum Imperati gloriam – For the Emperor's greater glory.

Just so you know, the new faction presented here is of my own devising. If it happens to include any registered trademarks, then it is purely coincidental. Thank you and enjoy!)

-

_"Many were their marvels of their technology and great was their power. But their hearts were corrupt for Chaos was the fount of their glory. Lesser was our technology and our might, but our purity and our faith were greater weapons. Still they closed with us, unto death and damnation, that their world be yielded at the highest cost. Indeed we were twice the victor, for in death we receive the Emperor's peace. For them, the realm of Chaos for their dwelling place, the bloody ground for their tomb, and the wails of the dying for their epitaph."_

_ From the personal writings of Lord Solar Macharius_

-

Valarion was fascinated.

He could not take his eyes off the data-crystal. The results of the examinations proved at least some of his suspicions correct.

These people, physically anyway, were human. Human, like himself.

There were those who would say not. To them, the humans on this planet were savage, feral things. Their technology was barely above the flint knives of ancient cave-men. Crude energy projectors and chemical explosives. They dressed in drab and uncomfortable-looking uniforms of cheap cloth with no individuality or style at all.

That was what they would say, but not what he would say. Unlike most of his people, Valarion could understand why certain things were different. He could look at something and have an idea as to why it was what it was.

That was why he was there. It was because of his talents that he had been appointed Investigator and given this important task.

The task of finding out whether or not his people were the only humans left in the Galaxy, as it had been taught for tens of thousands of years.

Valarion walked across the stone room, his white robes trailing in the pooled blood, and stopped just in front of the icon on the wall. It was a two-headed bird, wings outstretched, talons spread.

Feeling rather foolish, he reached out and touched the icon.

Nothing to it. Just shaped metal. Yet this image was all over this facility and on the uniforms and even the bodies of the inhabitants. This image must have been of great political or spiritual significance.

He had never seen it before in his life, yet the effect it had on him was profound. It seemed to stir something deep inside him. It was as though he should know this image somehow.

Valarion relished his task. He had become disillusioned with the arrogance his people displayed towards the larger galaxy. It was true that they were powerful, that they had maintained at least some of the technology from before the revolt of the Iron Men. It was true that they had maintained and even improved their culture since then in the face of terrible diversity.

But it did not excuse their overconfidence, the overriding belief in their absolute superiority. It was a belief that could be the undoing of everything he held dear.

There had to be more than this! Valarion could not accept that this was the only other example of humanity in the whole Galaxy. There had to be more.

And he had evidence. His studies of the large dish-shaped structure showed that it was some sort of long-range transmitter.

He also knew that some of these humans could wield the Inner Powers. He had felt it when the humanoids had overwhelmed the facility.

"My Lord, please respond!"

Startled out of his reverie, Valarion heard the voice coming from the communicator built into his circlet.

"Surakai, what is the matter?"

"Multiple ether signatures have entered the system my Lord. That they are clustered together suggests ships."

Valarion could feel his Augur's fear and surprise. It was difficult if not impossible to conceal one's feelings in a telepathic communication.

"Shall I contact Lord Damarose?"

A sensible question, and a prudent thing to do, but Valarion still found it distasteful. Damarose was an experienced warrior and an unrepentant glory-seeker, desperate to make himself indispensable. If he failed to do so, he might find himself dragged back to the Home-worlds at his family's insistence.

Valarion did not want to have to go crawling to the violent, irascible Damarose for protection. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

And besides, he wanted to see these newcomers. He was desperate to know more. Would these be the proof he needed? Would they vindicate the beliefs that he had held for so long?

"No," Valarion eventually answered. "No doubt he has spotted them already. Prepare the _Kamiumo _for quick escape. We may need to leave in a hurry."

He wanted to talk to the newcomers. He wanted to find out as much as possible.

But he might not be able to. What if they had come to avenge those who once inhabited this facility?

Curse Damarose and his bloody-mindedness! These unfortunates had died for nothing, and he knew for a fact that he still had no prisoner.

He knew. The capture-team humanoids must have been destroyed. He would have sensed them otherwise.

-

The image grew larger and larger. When combined with an energy spike in that area, it was obvious what awaited them.

"That must be the repulsorcraft we were warned about," Brother Ichiro commented.

"It would seem so," Brother Katsuo replied. He watched silently as the other Thunderhawk Gunships of Junyo Squadron reported in the same sighting.

"Hold brother, there is another reading," Ichiro interrupted his reverie. "Two more contacts climbing. Look like Interceptors."

"Junyo Squadron!" Katsuo barked. "Confirm Interceptor sighting!"

"Junyo 2 confirms."

"Junyo 3 confirms."

"Junyo 4 confirms."

"Junyo 5 confirms."

The remainder of the squadron all confirmed.

"Energy spikes!" Ichiro spoke with greater urgency. "Confirm hostile!"

Katsuo forced himself to be calm. Panic was as unbecoming to a Crimson Guardian as hatred. Neither emotion was conducive to fighting effectively.

"Junyo Squadron, interception configuration, stand by to engage enemy aircraft. The Emperor protects!"

Then he saw them, rising from the lowest cloud banks. Each a silvery oval, framed with a pair of forward-sweeping wings. They approached with great speed, their intention obvious.

Katsuo heard the familiar roar of the heavy bolters. The weapons were inaccurate at such a long range, but it would probably be enough to scatter the enemy.

They did not. Katsuo could see the shimmer of vehicle-grade conversion fields, or whatever equivalent this race used, as some of the bolts impacted. Closer and closer they came, unperturbed by the bolter fire.

"Squadron! Peel now!"

The Thunderhawks broke formation as energy beams lanced forward. Junyo 3 did not move fast enough, taking a hit that tore one wing away. For a second, the gunship bobbed gently, slowing down, before exploding violently.

Katsuo did not bother to mourn. He had lost wingmen before, and he had no more reason to get upset this time than at any other. What mattered was destroying these enemies before they decimated his squadron any further.

"Junyo Squadron, come about and continue firing."

He had a sneaking suspicion regarding those conversion fields. Pretty soon he would find out.

The Thunderhawk shuddered as he brought it around in a tight turn. It was not designed for high-speed aerial combat, but under the circumstances there was no option. He had to remove these interceptors before Taiho Squadron arrived with the Assault Squads.

Ignoring the g-forces pulling at him, Katsuo completed the turn. Through the forward viewport he could see the alien fighters pulling off astonishingly tight turns to face the remaining Junyo Squadron Thunderhawks.

"Servitors!" he barked. "Lascannons! Single targeting! Fire on my mark!"

Whispering the mantra of control, Katsuo held the Thunderhawk on its smooth arc, waiting for just the right moment.

The Thunderhawks opened fire.

And there it was.

"Lascannons, FIRE!"

One deadly beam struck. It tore through the silver hull of the enemy fighter and continued on out of the other side. The strange vehicle came apart, disintegrating as its protective field collapsed leaving it at the mercy of the wind and air pressure that it had once so easily negotiated.

The other fighter was more fortunate, seemingly predicting the attack and preparing for it. The las-beam diffused harmlessly against the glimmering shield.

But the other Thunderhawks had not ceased firing. The bolts peppered the alien interceptor, tearing great holes in the structure and sending up bright sparks.

Katuso had been right. A conversion field of such power could only protect a single area at a time. Head-on attacks in aerial combat were something only the inexperienced or the suicidal would normally do. Instead of seeking a tactical advantage, the enemy pilots had chosen to attack head on, trusting in their conversion fields and assuming that the space marines would not perceive their weakness.

Even so, that insight had been paid for with Junyo 3, and the lives of all on board. Those fighters were indeed powerful, though improperly used.

"I have ground contacts," Ichiro spoke up, startling Katsuo from his reverie. "Multiple infantry and walkers."

Katsuo glanced out of the side viewport at the remaining fighter, seeing it descend in a wobbling spiral. There was no time to pursue it. Already Taiho Squadron was approaching and Junyo Squadron had yet to complete its mission.

"Junyo Squadron, prepare to carry out ground attacks. Ignore the repulsorcraft for now, concentrate on viable targets. Remain in formation and don't waste ammunition. In the name of the Emperor, the slain shall be avenged."

-

Star-Rider Zarufiur counted himself lucky to be alive.

Although his Fighter-craft was beyond repair, he had managed to get enough of it down for him to be able to walk away. It was not an ideal situation, but it was preferable to immolation or falling.

He had underestimated his opponents. Not just him, but his brother Zarumyon too. And as a result his brother was dead. They had thought that the crude technology of their opponents would make it easy.

It was so simple, so infuriatingly simple. One of them had figured out that the protective screen could only be projected in a single direction at a time. After that it had been just a matter of efficient deployment and use of available resources.

To have destroyed one of them was sheer luck, or perhaps the shock value of new and deadly technology. But what luck they once possessed had soon run out. He had seen it just in time. Zarumyon had not.

His left leg was hurting badly. Zarufiur looked down, gagging at the blood streaming from a ragged gash just below his waist, staining his white uniform. Realising that it would be difficult to escape on foot, Zarufiur decided to attempt contact.

The searing headache that overrode even the pain in his leg told him that it was a bad idea. As he pulled the silver circlet from his blond hair, the pain stopped.

Part of the silvery skin had been ripped away, exposing the delicate circuitry. The sparks and the smell of burning indicated that it was damaged, beyond his ability to repair.

He flung it away in frustration. The circlet served to boost his somewhat limited mental abilities, allowing him to communicate telepathically and control a fighter-craft. But damaged like that, it was more likely to melt his brain.

It had been less painful, however, than Zarumyon's death. With his brother gone, Zarufiur felt alone, empty, as though a part of him had been cut away. It was worse than any physical injury.

A click came from behind him. He turned, insofar as he could, to see a tall robed figure standing by his wrecked fighter-craft. It was pointing some sort of weapon at him.

His hand shot to his holstered En-pistol…

"Don't bother," the voice brooked no argument. "My reflexes are several thousand times faster than your own. Your mind might be quick, but your hands are not."

Shuddering with despair and pain, Zarufiur slumped to his knees.

"If you're going to kill me, then kill me! I don't want to live like this!"

Was this what it was like to be one of them? Alone, cut off, denied the comforting presences of others in his mind, shorn of all belonging?

"You are a coward," Adamar's voice was contemptuous. "You seek death not out of courage, but because to live is too painful. That is not sacrifice, but betrayal.

"How could you know what its like!?" Zarufiur spat, his words filled with anger and hatred. "You who are not human! You who feel nothing! You…you _mutant_! You _abomination_!"

"Your words are meaningless," Adamar pulled the trigger.

The explosions were audible now. Just over the horizon, if his estimate was correct, a battle was taking place.

So they had come after all. Adamar knew that it could not be his enemies, for the familiar Thunderhawks in the sky had worn different colours. There might be hope after all, or if not that, then a means of getting off this planet.

Ignoring the remains of the pilot, Adamar started walking in the direction of the battle. Whether to salvation or damnation, he would know soon enough.

-

(Just so you know, this new race was invented by me, with any similarities to the personal creations of others being entirely coincidental. I used them because an unknown enemy might make things more interesting. If you don't like it, I'm sorry. Please review so that I will know.)


	3. Swift is Heaven's Vengeance

_"I have seen him on the battlefield, the place of reckoning. I have seen him in their fury, in their might, and in their honour. I have seen him in their unending battle with those who would destroy us all. In all they do they excel, turning defeat into victory and despair into hope. Like him, they are the sword of righteousness, the scourge of the wicked. Like him, they are the armour of purity, defenders of his people. Like him they are the martyrs, living that they might die, and dying that we might live."_

_ From Cardinal Septimus' letter to the Gudrunites, __6:41__. _

-

Assualt Squad Masamori descended upon the enemy, bolt-pistols blazing.

It had been obvious to them, from the moment that they saw the heaped bodies, what had happened here.

It was obvious who and what had done it.

Their fate was equally obvious.

Lacking the means with which to return fire, the blue-costumed humanoids were slaughtered. They made no real attempt to avoid it. They scattered, only to bunch up elsewhere. Where they bunched, frag grenades tore them to pieces. Where they scattered, bolts picked them off.

Finally they touched down, jump-packs humming. Around them lay the enemy, broken and dead, severed limbs twitching, gushing blood.

Blood, the colour of their armour.

Blood, like the blood that these creatures had split. The blood of the weak. The blood of the powerless.

But the battle was not over. The repulsorcraft was still there, hovering directly above the central building of what had been a communications facility. Short nozzles spat shining death at the Thunderhawks that were harassing it. The silver skin was mottled with the dark scars of direct hits.

It had so far failed to bring down any of the Thunderhawks.

"Brother-Sergeant!" Brother Akito pointed at the ship. "Look there!"

Sergeant Masamori looked to see a column of shimmering light extend from the bottom of the ship. When it touched the ground, a quintet of human-shaped figures floated gently down.

Five human-shaped figures would not normally have bothered Sergeant Masamori or any other Space Marine.

What bothered him was their size.

Each was taller than a sacred Dreadnaught, but more humanoid in shape. They reminded him uncomfortably of the battlesuits used by the alien Tau.

But there was a difference. Masamori was familiar with the Tau, having fought in the Damocles Crusade. These machines were heavier-set than the Tau Battlesuits, and did not appear to be equipped with jump-packs. They also lacked any of that idiosyncratic race's symbols or design features.

And, Masamori grudgingly admitted to himself, they would not have committed a horror such as this.

The machines walked forward as though on parade. Each carried what appeared to be a bulbous pistol in its right hand, aimed at him and his squad.

"Squad Masamori, retreat to rendezvous point!"

It irked him to withdraw from battle, but what choice did he have? It would take armour and Devastator Squads to deal with these machines. To face them now would gain them little.

The walkers opened fire.

-

"How very entertaining," commented Damarose. He sat upon a gilt throne raised on a dais in the middle of the command chamber, watching the Striders engage the red-armoured enemies. Around the sides of the chamber four Augurs floated in pillars of light, their minds elsewhere, their powers amplified, their visions taking form on the crystal screen before him.

"Shall we intervene, my lord?" asked Tamufiel, his First Officer.

"No," Damarose replied, smiling just slightly. "If that fop Valarion wants to get himself killed, then who are we to interfere? Besides, it will allow us to see just what these new enemies are capable of."

In truth, he was itching to get to grips with them. Distasteful as his people might find violence, it was he lived for. Ever since his first battle so many years ago, it had been his joy.

But there were others who did not understand. His family were probably still pressing the Synod to recall him. Trying to control his fate for their selfish purposes, just as they always had.

If Valarion, fool that he was, had to be sacrificed then so be it. Damarose could avoid being dragged home if he made himself indispensable. Fighting off a deadly alien enemy could be highly beneficial to that cause.

He focussed his thoughts upon the Augurs, easing himself into the telepathic streams in order to see more clearly.

Then he saw. He saw the crude, lumpen vessels orbiting the planet. He saw smaller ships landing near Valarion's position, disgorging many vehicles.

He looked closer, focussing on one of the vehicles. He saw the armoured warriors inside.

He saw one of them turn and look straight at him. He could see the dark eyes staring at him from inside its helmet.

Damarose recoiled in surprise. How could one of those savages possess the power of the inner mind? It made no sense. What was more, how could such a thing be _human_?

This one nevertheless had the power and was trained in its use. He could feel the savage's mind pushing, probing, as though trying to understand what had touched it.

"What is it, Librarian Ieyasu?" one of the others asked.

"A psyker," it replied. "Gamma class or higher. I will try to resist it."

But what was a psyker? Was that their word for those who wielded the powers of the inner mind? Was this Librarian one of them?

Pushing the distracting thoughts away, Damarose struck back. He pushed with all his considerable willpower, trying to break through the Librarian's defences. He was tempted to draw upon the Augurs as well, but he did not want to risk them in what might be a deadly duel.

The Librarian surged forth, his mind leaving his body in a rush of power. Damarose could feel it through every sense, burning in his mind's eye.

Knowing what would happen to the delicate psy-reactive systems of his ship if they were exposed to so powerful a manifestation, Damarose did likewise. He floated free, racing up towards it, not bothering to take a shape.

There it was, blazing like a new-born star. A great two-headed bird, wreathed in flame, screaming a psychic scream that would have overwhelmed a weaker mind.

Damarose could not believe it. Such power! And coming from a savage!

He could not believe it. He did not want to believe it. Did one of these primitives have the power to defeat him, a Lord of the House of Damar?

_"No! I will not be defeated!"  
_ Resolved, his mind manifested into its preferred form, a representation of his physical body.

The human form. The perfection of creation. The embodiment of power.

The eagle screamed again, ploughing forward, talons hooking for his spectral throat. It battered his defences aside, smashed through the mental shields he created to bar its way. He could already feel himself burning, such was its presence.

Damarose attacked, sending forward a thrusting blade of psychic energy. It struck the approaching Eagle, the reaction causing a crash of thunder. The other mind faltered, his energy countering its own, pure white light pushing back the flames.

The Librarian redoubled his efforts. The Eagle screamed again, sending shockwaves through his soul, weakening his concentration, shaking his resolve.

The blade shattered, leaving Damarose howling in psychic agony as part of his soul was consumed by the flames. He recoiled as the Eagle flung itself upon him, driving its talons into his mind-form.

It was as though he had been thrown onto a burning pyre. The flames were everywhere, surrounding him, consuming him, blinding him, deafening him.

But this was nothing to the images within.

The voices. Thousands upon thousands of voices, roaring as one.

_"IMPERATOR DEI! IMPERATOR DOMINUS!"_

A figure, clad in gold, sword raised to strike.

_"No world shall be beyond my rule; No enemy shall be beyond my wrath!"_

Multitudes in arms marching to war, vast fleets of starships spanning the unfathomable void. Battles upon battles upon battles.

All for the Eagle. All for the one called the Emperor. Immortal; implacable; swift is heaven's vengeance.

He felt himself falling, his spirit form in tatters. As he fell he saw the Eagle retreating too. Whoever this Librarian Ieyasu was, he knew better than to go too far from his mortal shell.

His eyes opened. He was safe, armoured by flesh. He could no longer sense his enemy.

But the images did not fade.

"Take us into orbit," he gasped, ignoring the looks of horror and confusion his officers were giving him. "Do it quickly!"

"My lord!" one officer called Sarukimo blurted out. "Our ground forces will be left without support!"

"DO IT!" Damarose roared, the force of it knocking Sarukimo across the chamber. He collapsed into the throne, the tension vented.

The Star-Riders would have to suffice. Zarufiur and Zarumiyon were dead, but their own incompetence was to blame. His remaining Star-Riders, few though they were, would not make the same mistakes.

He felt the slight jolt as his ship, the _Falariar, _began its ascent. It did so with grace, without shudders or noise, sliding through the air like the sword it was fashioned to imitate.

He had to stop them. These invaders had to be destroyed at any cost. If he did not, then the last vestige of human high civilisation would be utterly destroyed.

And that could not happen. He would not let it happen. His people had survived the revolt of the Iron men; they could not suffer this fate.

Especially not from their own kind.

-

Brother-Sergeant Hikaru took stock of the situation.

The Assault Squads had fallen back in the face of a counter-attack by enemy mechs, leaving the outer base perimeter to the enemy. They had taken the opportunity this afforded to consolidate their remaining Humanoids. Hikaru could see them, just inside the remnants of what might have been hab-units.

He could also see the enemy walkers standing in the main street. Fortunately they were too busy exchanging fire with two Predator Tanks and the sacred Dreadnaught Shikanosuke to give the Humanoids any fire support.

That was something in his favour at least.

The outer defence perimeter could hardly be thought of as such, as it consisted of the beginnings of a concrete wall. Presumably the inhabitants of this once-thriving colonial town had been killed before it could be completed.

As it was, it provided a modicum of cover for his squad, along with Squad Katsuyori. A wide open area ran parallel to the uncompleted wall, behind which were the buildings in which the Humanoids were collecting, presumably intended as a killing zone in case the wall was breached. These defences were well thought out.

This would have been a tricky situation, if the enemy had been capable of making use of the terrain. The enemy foot-soldiers seemed to be capable only of hand-to-hand combat, meaning that they would have to charge across the open ground in order to engage the Space Marines.

Hikaru would have been confident if he only had an idea of the enemy's numbers.

An explosion caught his attention. He looked and saw one of the enemy walkers toppling backwards, venting smoke and flames. Hikaru offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Emperor.

Then, cursing himself for becoming distracted, he returned his attention to the Humanoids.

Just in time. As one the Humanoids were leaving the ruins and walking forward in close order. Their blank eyes stared at the Space Marines. Their stylised, porcelain-white faces were meaningless.

"Squad Hikaru! Targets to your front!"

The nine marines of Squad Hikaru were ready, boltguns cocked and aimed at the approaching enemies. Squad Katsuyori did likewise, as did Squad Harunobu.

The Humanoids broke into a jog. Despite the fighting going on to the right of them, there seemed to be no sound. To Hikaru, to all of them, there was nothing but this, nothing but the battle that was coming on swift, white-booted feet.

"Make ready!"

The commands were not really necessary. Each marine knew what he was supposed to do, as he had done it a thousand times or more. But it gave them something to focus on.

Then he noticed something.

Among the mass of pale blue jogging towards them, there was a blot of white. As he focussed on this anomaly, he saw that it wore white and pale blue robes, but was most set apart by its darker and generally more human shade of skin.

Hikaru felt a fierce exultation arise within him. Here was one of their leaders. Here was one of those who had ordered the killing of thousands of defenceless colonists.

Here was one of the guilty ones. Now he would suffer the vengeance of the Crimson Guardians.

Time seemed to slow down. Even as the attackers broke into a run, the moment stretched to an eternity.

It was pure instinct that made Hikaru give the order to fire.

The rest was a blur. Afterwards Hikaru would remember only the roar of the boltguns, the heavy coughs of Brother Jubei's heavy bolter…

…and the silence as the Humanoids were blasted apart. They simply ran on into the firestorm even as it consumed them. Without pain and without fear, they rushed on to their destruction.

And then it was over.

The killing ground was littered with the dead. Pieces of the Humanoids lay scattered about like a child's discarded toys.

Only the guilty one remained. There he lay, his white robes slowly turning crimson, helpless upon the cold ground.

Then there was no more silence. The explosions became audible once more.

As one the Space Marines stepped over the barrier and advanced, weapons at the ready, moving in to claim the newly won territory.

Hikaru was the first to reach the wounded enemy.

Strangely enough, Hikaru felt nothing for this wretched, broken thing. Normally he had to fight back his emotions, resist the torrents of hate that so often threatened to overwhelm him. But not this time.

"Who are you?"

"I am…Valarion…" the thing managed to say between bouts of coughing, "of the Alliance of High Humanity."

It could have come from any planet in the Imperium. It's face was human, but soft and unblemished, seeming almost innocent. Black waist-length hair spread out beneath it like a cloak.

"Did…did you come…for us?" it croaked.

"Yes."

"I thought so…" its pale blue eyes were full of sorrow. "For what it's worth…I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Now came the rage. "Do you expect mere words to undo what you and your kind have done here!?"

"We never meant to…"  
"Be silent!" Hikaru roared. "I will not hear thy blasphemies, murderer of thine own people!"

"Yes…" tears were running down its face. "I am, by my inaction, guilty of that. I will pay the price…for my cowardice."

"That you shall," Hikaru kept his tone emotionless, fighting to contain his fury. "In the name of the Emperor, you are now our prisoner. You will reveal to us the secrets of your faction and its dark technologies, or else endure holy castigation and penance for the remedying of your treachery. That is how you shall pay the price."

"Why…must we do this?" it gagged and blood dribbled down its chin. "Why do we kill each-other? Why, when we are one and the same?"

"Because we must," Hikaru replied, his anger fading in the face of Valarion's sorrow. "I am a Space Marine of the Adeptus Astartes. I am sworn to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. So long as there are those who will make war on the weak and helpless, then I must fight them. You were party to such a crime, and for that you will be punished."

"Someday," Valarion replied, with a sigh of resignation. "But not today."

And then he vanished.

-

Aboard the _Kamiumo, _Surakai watched in trepidation as the broken body of Valarion was lowered into the stasis chamber. Getting him back to the nearest Alliance planet for treatment was his only chance of surviving. Had he not managed to trace his Lord and teleport him out of danger, then he would surely have died.

_"My lord,"_ Surakai tried desperately to communicate. _"Lord Kemufian is dead and your forces are in disarray. What are your orders?"_

_ "Recall all remaining units,"_ the communication was weak, but barely understandable. _"And then take us from this place. We gain nothing more from this." _Surakai acknowledged and hurried away.

_"It is consummated," _Valarion thought, even as his body was wracked by death-spasms. _"The children of humanity have entered the place of testing. The Silver men and the Stone men will clash, and only destiny may decide which is the worthier."_

_-_

(Sorry it took so long. Anyone familiar with the Warhammer 40000 Rulebook may know about the Iron men and the Stone men. Try and guess about the Silver men!) ____


	4. And They Shall Know no Fear

_"The Emperor's word is truth, the Emperor law is justice, the Emperor's peace is our salvation. He is the flame that shall cleanse the Universe, the scourge of the outer and the inner wickedness. The alien and the mutant shall burn in the fire of his vengeance, the heretic and the weak in faith shall be blinded by the light of his righteousness. We are the hands of the Emperor, for we have answered his call to arms. We are the warriors of the flame, who with fire shall purge mankind of sin, and cleanse the stars of evil."_

_Encorderius Brayne, "The Book of the Redemption."_

__-

It did not take long to secure the town.

The enemy went from active defence to fighting retreat, perhaps having realised that their cause was hopeless. Although some of the mechs managed to reach the ship, most of the remaining Humanoids were left behind.

They fought to the death, dying under the guns of the Crimson Guardians in one futile charge after another, buying time with their lives. They lay where they fell, drenched in their sickly pink blood, as their mothership ascended to the heavens like an arrogant, uncaring deity.

Captain Senshiro made his command post inside the communication facility, or what was left of it, while the Devastator Squads and vehicles took up position inside the inner perimeter. The tactical squads, of which there were four, spent the next three hours patrolling the outer buildings.

The purpose of this was threefold. First and most immediately important was the search for any remaining enemies. Second was to map the area with regards to defence, as it might soon be necessary to defend this place.

The final purpose was to search for survivors. A purpose that quickly proved to have no meaning.

The slaughter had been swift and efficient. No wasted effort, no messing about, just quick and clean kills in almost all cases. This was not the work of renegades, who revelled in their bloodshed and made every killing a personal insult to the Imperium of man. This was the work of calculating minds.

Or of programmed machines.

The bodies lay were they had fallen, little or no attempt having been made to remove them. Wherever one went, wherever one looked, there they were. They lay in doorways, behind furniture, on stairways. They lay there, pale and unblemished, with often only a small hole in the chest or neck to tell the story of their end. They might have been sleeping.

Except for the blood.

Some had tried to defend themselves. Their bodies bore severed limbs and long, almost surgical strokes, as a badge of desperate, futile courage. Some still clutched weapons in their cold hands. Autopistols, metal bars, kitchen knives, anything to hand when the invaders burst into their homes.

No one was left. The inhabitants of the small colonial town called 'Picard's Landing', named for the planet of which it was the principal settlement, had been wiped out. It seemed likely that a similar fate had befallen the other colonists.

If there had been any other colonists. Someone, there was no way of knowing who, had erased the records.

Their tasks completed, the Sergeants of each squad met in the main control room of the communications facility. Brother-Captain Senshiro, along with his command squad, awaited them.

"Brothers," Senshiro's voice was sorrowful. "Your reports have been compiled. It is plain that the enemy has wiped out the colonists. We came too late."

The sergeants hung their heads. It was the duty of Crimson Guardians, nay all Space Marines, to defend Imperial citizens from all who would do them harm. They had failed to protect the people of Picard's Landing.

"However brothers," Senshiro went on. "Our sacred starship the _Abukama_ has reported the existence of another enemy vessel. It has made an attack run against our starships and caused minor damage to the _Hayate_."

"Brother-Captain," Sergeant Katsuyori spoke up. "Does this mean that more enemies await on the surface?"

"I believe so," Senshiro replied. "According to Ship-Master Saburota, the enemy vessel is similar in size and tonnage to one of our own Hunter-class destroyers. The ship that escaped us was far smaller, yet based on the number of troops it was able to carry; it is likely that a larger number are still on this planet, along with support vehicles such as those we have already seen.

We have no way of knowing what forces are arrayed against us until our vessels are able to provide orbital telemetry. In addition, the Thunderhawks have returned to the _Abukama _to refuel and will not be ready to retrieve us for at least five hours.

In short, brothers, we shall hold our position here until the situation is clear."

* * *

Damarose felt the thrill and revelled in it.

The _Falariar_ obeyed his every thought. He saw what it saw. He felt what it felt. Not that the ship had much depth of feeling.

With a whim, he brought _Falariar_ into a full turn. The ship responded without complaint, silent and graceful, the great blade-like bow turning to face the enemy ships. The name meant 'swift slaying blade'. It was apt indeed.

He could see the enemy ships in front of him. How crude and lumpen they seemed, how ridiculously baroque and heavy-set when compared to the sleek lines of the Alliance's vessels.

The two smaller enemies were closing the gap, moving to either side of him. Still he continued on, urging the _Falariar _to fly faster, desperate to get to grips with the larger enemy. It was side-on to him, presenting vulnerable flanks to his En-projectors and the great ramming blade that made up the forward third of the ship. He envisaged with relish the blade, sheathed in glowing energy, slicing through the hull of the enemy, bearing its contents to the merciless void.

The smaller enemies were upon him. Bright bursts of plasma blazed across the void, splashing over his shields. Damarose felt them collapse under the onslaught.

At his mind's command, the En-projectors took aim, compensating for distance and speed. As the two enemies past him on either side, they opened fire.

There were very few hits. A full broadside was very difficult when travelling at such speeds. He watched the hits strike the shields of the enemy ships. Apart from a few small explosions on one of the ships, it was little more than a firework display.

No matter. The real prize lay right in front of him, moving too slowly to escape its fate. _Falariar _sensed his intentions, and the ramming blade began to glow as energy was fed into it.

_"Soon you will be destroyed," _Damarose thought triumphantly. _"So much for your Imperium of __Man.__ The __Alliance__ will never fall to your kind!"_

The images returned. For an instant, he almost lost control Concentrating hard, he managed to force them away. Sweat ran down his brow, plastering his hair to his face.

It loomed before him, seeming to grow bigger and bigger. Damarose felt the exultation of battle within him, and it was stronger than ever before.

For he was in battle. This was what he lived for, what he did best, the place where he felt truly alive.

And then the ship opened fire.

Pain beyond pain, his body contorted in agony. _Falariar_'s pain was his pain, his psychic defences utterly overwhelmed. He could feel the ship coming apart. He could hear the cries of fear and confusion from those on board. He could see the flames burning bright and hungry.

And then he was falling, the sensations dimming as he fell from the Command Throne.

He hardly felt the landing. He could barely perceive anything. He could hear nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing, his vision blurring.

This was it. Damarose knew that he was dying, that parts of his brain had been destroyed by the psychic backlash. Wounded and with no means of escape, this had been his final, desperate, futile battle.

He had failed. He had not managed to defeat the invaders. Before long they would discover the existence of the Alliance, and then the war would begin.

Was that a bad thing? For so long the decadence and overconfidence of the Alliance had frustrated him, suffocating his soul. And when he tried to escape, to seek fulfilment in battle, they tried to drag him back.

He thought of his family back on the Home-worlds, from whom he had fought so hard to escape. His distant, cold-hearted father; his cruel, grasping mother; his brothers and sisters, all of them power-hungry and ruthless.

Even as he slipped into the darkness, he felt just a hint of satisfaction. He had beaten them. He had found something that not even they could take away from him.

Glory everlasting.

* * *

With one Alliance ship destroyed and the other fleeing from the system, the Crimson Guardians enjoyed orbital superiority. With this came an even greater prize; the exact position of the remaining Alliance forces.

And thus Third Company swung into action.

With the Thunderhawks still refuelling, the Space Marines made use of Rhino and Land Raider Transports to travel the two hundred miles to where the stranded enemies were camped, stopping only briefly to regroup.

Inside his Land Raider, _Sword of Truth,_ Captain Senshiro examined the tactical readout received courtesy of the _Abukama._

There they were. A few hundred low-level heat readings, most likely the Humanoids, and several vehicles. This would be a hard fight.

At least it would have been if the enemy had tactical skills greater than those of an inebriated Demiurg. The enemy were positioned in a valley, between three steep hills and a wide river. Whoever had wanted a bath was soon going to regret it.

"Techmarine Kenichi, what is your situation?" he spoke into the comm.

"The Whirlwinds are ready, Brother-Captain," the Techmarine replied. "The missiles have been reconfigured in accordance with your instructions. May they serve us well."

The Whirlwind Hyperios was similar to the standard Whirlwind in practically all respects, apart from that it was capable of anti-aircraft defence. Having seen Junyo Squadron's report, Senshiro had ordered the reprogramming of the targeting computers.

In spite of this development, and the apparent ineptitude of the enemy, Senshiro felt apprehensive. He always did.

This would have come as a surprise to any observer, considering that he was one of the most successful Captains in the Chapter's short history. But to one who knew what had happened, it would be no surprise at all.

_"What of their curse? The curse of death unsung, unremembered, forgotten. The curse uttered among Armageddon's flames."_

Many Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes had been involved in the Third Armageddon war. One of those was a Chapter with a reputation for ruthlessness and brutality, for destroying the enemy regardless of the cost. The Marines Malevolent had earned it.

Somewhere on the outskirts of Hades Hive, Senshiro and a few Crimson Guardians had encountered a group of Marines Malevolent mistreating refugees. After hearing of what had happened at the Emperor's Deliverance Refugee Camp, tensions were running high.

_"Leave them alone! That's an _order

_"Mind your own business!"_

_"You are out of order sergeant! I'll see you stripped of your armour for this!"_

_"Don't threaten your betters, weak-willed fools!"_

_"MURDERERS! COWARDS!"_

_"You dare threaten us!? This is what we think of your high-minded foolishness!"_

And when the Sergeant had demonstrated his attitude by shooting one of the refugees, something inside Senshiro snapped. He and his fellows had turned their weapons on the Marines Malevolent and drove them away after a brief skirmish.

But he would never forget what the Sergeant had screamed before the bolter shell ended his wicked existence.

_"You will die for this! You will die alone and forgotten, your armour left to rust and your gene-seed to putrefaction! That is the fate of heroes!"_

He had tried to persuade himself that it meant nothing; that it was merely the ranting of a cruel villain. But if it was, then why had it haunted him for so many years?

Senshiro drove the apprehension and the memories away. This was not the time for such things. His forces were ready and the enemy was vulnerable. This was the time for war, the time to wreak vengeance on those who would harm the Emperor's subjects.

Gesturing for the upper gunner to stand aside, Senshiro stood up. The upper hatch opened with a clunk, and he could feel the cold as he poked his head up.

Scanning the horizon, his enhanced eyesight taking everything in, he saw no sign of the enemy. The landscape, full of undulating hills and valleys, would play havoc with conventional sensors. Without orbital telemetry, an advantage currently only available to the Crimson Guardians, the enemy's mysterious psychic abilities were all that was left.

And soon, that would not be a problem.

Satisfied, he climbed down the ladder.

"Link external comm, base camp" he whispered. The machine spirit of his armour responded immediately, patching his communicator into the Land Raider's more powerful transmitter.

"Senshiro to Saburota," he spoke, once the HUD informed him that the link was complete. "Begin jamming upon receipt of message. Also, begin Maximilian Protocol. The Emperor is watching."

There was a pause as the message was relayed to the _Abukama _via the pulse-beam transmitter at Picards Landing. It was a crude arrangement, but it would have to suffice for now.

"Saburota responding. Message received and jamming underway. Astropaths report positive on Maximilian Protocol."

And with that, the usual white-noise became a squealing din of distorted sound as the jamming kicked in.

"Brother-Captain!" Senshiro turned to see that it was Librarian Ieyasu who had spoken. One look into that pale and drawn face told him everything that he needed to know.

"We attack now," he said, his voice loud in the cramped interior of the Land Raider. "The Emperor is with us!"

* * *

(Sorry it took so long. I like to consider it an assurance of quality, but I cannot be sure even of that. For those who are wondering, I'm quite certain Space Marines are capable of operating at optimum efficiency even during a communications blackout. Thank you all very much for reading and reviewing. More next time!) __


	5. Deliver my Soul from the Sword

_Did the Emperor seek glory in the mayhem of battle? _

_Nay, for he sought no glory. _

_Did the Emperor drown humanity in hatred?_

_Nay, for he was without hate._

_Did the Emperor live in indolence while others starved?_

_Nay, for he was without greed. _

_Did the Emperor stand idle while the helpless perished?_

_Nay, for he was noble._

_Did the Emperor fall to the alien and the heretic?_

_Nay, for he was mighty._

_Did the Emperor abandon us to Chaos?_

_Nay, for he died for us._

_Devotional Chant of the Crimson Guardians Space Marines. _

Tamufiel had thought herself wise in leaving the _Falariar_, mere seconds before it went blazing into orbit to attack the enemy ships. The nosebleed she received as a side-effect of the psychic death-scream from those on board was evidence of her wisdom. But now, when she previously thought herself safe among the remaining Alliance troops, she had reason to wonder.

Her powers no longer worked. Her sixth sense, which she had possessed from the day she was born, was being utterly overwhelmed. Something, she did not no what, was creating a psychic projection over the immediate area.

It was affecting everything that used or required the powers of the inner mind. Above her, the fighter-craft left behind by Damarose spiralled out of the sky. Around her Humanoids just stood there staring while their Handlers clutched at their heads, howling in agony as the psychic 'white noise' blinded them to the energy of creation.

Then came the explosions.

Silver shards littered the ground as one of the shelters was blasted apart. The hot wind threatened to topple Tamufiel, but with effort she managed to stay on her feet. Pulling her En-pistol from its holster, she scanned about the camp, trying to make sense of the chaos.

A sudden brainwave brought her attention back to the junior officers. She could see one or two of them clutching their heads and falling to their knees, incoherent.

"Take your circlets off!" she screamed as loud as she could, driving back the pain. "Take them off, damn you!"

Most of them got the point, and pulled the silver bands from their heads. Seeing their immediate recovery brought her a little relief, and confirmed her suspicion that this phenomenon was psychic in nature.

Other sights, however, dispelled any feeling of relief. Although the Striders were unaffected, as the pilots used direct neural links rather than mental powers, they were disorganised. They fired at hopelessly long range, aiming their bulbous En-cannons at one target then another.

She soon saw what it was they were shooting at. Three repulsorcraft, painted in the blood-red colours of the enemy, flying low over the camp. Tamufiel could make out the blocky structure, the two red-armoured warriors seated at the front, one piloting and the other manning the main weapon, raining death upon the panicking Alliance troops.

And without the Fighter-craft, of which there was no sigh, there was little that could be done about them.

As Tamufiel tried to force down the rising panic, she noticed them.

They rolled inexorably down the hill. Red, lozenge-shaped, primitive, yet still they came, seeming undeterred by the increasingly erratic fire coming from the Striders.

Two of the vehicles halted near the top of the hill directly in front of her. Despite the distance and the smoke, she could see the red warriors disembark; lugging what appeared to be heavy weapons. That meant even more covering fire for the remaining Imperials.

And even more carnage in the Alliance Camp, which was already in chaos.

Even though the pain in her head had subsided to a dull throbbing, she was still denied her powers. Tamufiel knew that she would have to use more convention means of getting the camp in order.

"INTERCEPT THE ENEMIES!" she screamed at the top of her voice, hating the indignity of it yet knowing that there was no choice. When the nearby officers stared at her in bewilderment, she ran to them and started beating at them with her fists, shoving them in the direction of the enemy, all propriety thrown to the wind.

Two of them, her subordinates Sanasiel and Illariyon, got the idea and started running, shouting at the Humanoids to follow them. But the others shrank away, clutching at their heads, their eyes full of a primal fear that she did not need her powers to detect.

Snarling in frustration she ignored them and made to follow Sanasiel and Illariyon, only to bump into another officer. As she tried to push him out of the way, she looked up and recognised him as Shiniiur, the newest Subaltern. He stood there, staring straight forward, arms hanging limply.

"Shiniiur!" she shook him roughly. "Shiniiur! Answer me!"

Then she saw his eyes. That and the glistening trail of spittle running down his chin marking him as a lost cause.

Tamufiel grabbed Shiniiur by the waist and flung herself to the ground as a shrieking noise filled her ears. The pitch descended as the missile came closer and closer.

And then there was silence.

The Third Company advanced into the Alliance camp; Tactical Squads Hikaru, Katsuyori, Nobunaga and Harunobu, flanked on either side by Assault Squads Masamori and Tokimune.

Behind them, four Predators took up position in front of the Rhinos, their turret-mounted autocannons pouring high-velocity shells into the Striders. Within a few moments, five of the walkers had been reduced to smoking wrecks, with two more seriously damaged.

With the five remaining Striders concentrating on the Predators, it was a simple matter for the two Land-Raiders to enter the camp unmolested. Moving swiftly between the heaps of burning wreckage they headed for where, according to the Landspeeders, the enemy commanders were.

As they did so, most of the remaining Alliance infantry headed for the Crimson Guardians on foot. But the Space Marines were ready for them, meeting each disorganised assault with a hail of gunfire, the Assault Marines leaping in to finish off any survivors.

Bolter shells reduced the hordes of Humanoids to twitching ruin, but still they came.

There was not the luxury of taking prisoners, valuable though they might be. The human officers were gunned down with their slaves.

From the top of the western hill, Devastator Squads Yoshitaka and Kusunoki rained missiles, plasma and las-bolts onto the Alliance Vehicles. One by one the remaining Striders were neutralised, their returning fire dwindling to nothing.

But even though the Crimson Guardians had descended on the Alliance army like the Primarch Vulcan's hammer, the fight was not over yet. As they advanced further and further into the ruined camp, they encountered different and far sterner resistance.

Hikaru could just make them out through the smoke. They were clad in purple armour, with plumed helmets shining in the light of the flames. Their weapons poured fire into the line of Space Marines.

Still they advanced, unafraid and undoubting. Singing "Imperator Dei", they marched into the storm of energy bolts, firing as they went. Two marines fell to lucky shots, but there was no time to mourn. Brother Nobiyuki and Brother Katsuhito had gone unto the Emperor, and for those who remained there was only the fulfilment of duty.

To do otherwise would dishonour them.

Ignoring the enemy fire, Hikaru squeezed off another shot. He saw the enemy turn at the sound of the shot. He saw the bolt strike home, blowing the plumed helmet apart in a flood of gore.

These had to be human troops. Not quite Space Marines, but obviously mentally superior to the Humanoids. These had the good sense to retreat.

And so they did, falling back as bolter shells downed two more. With a whoosh, Assault Squad Masamori flung themselves upon the retreating enemies.

"Command to Squad Hikaru, report."

"Squad Hikaru reporting," Hikaru replied. "Enemy assault units wiped out. Enemy tactical units are retreating."

"Confirmed. Enemy command attempting to escape over the river. All squads move to intercept. Enemies to be taken alive if possible."

"Message understood. The Emperor is watching."

The bombardment had stopped, as the enemy vehicles had been wiped out. Because of this, Hikaru's superhuman hearing was no longer overwhelmed by the noise.

This seemingly trivial fact was to save his life.

He heard the wreckage move to his left. He saw the body burst up as he turned. He saw the glowing blade in the enemy's hand, the blood running from eyes and ears and nostrils. He heard the shriek of rage and anguish and fear.

It was all he could do to through back his head and avoid the flashing blade. It tore through the faceplate of his helmet, knocking him off balance. His vision went black when the delicate circuitry of the eyepieces was destroyed.

Hikaru felt himself falling. He felt himself hit the ground. He heard his assailant screaming and thrashing as his Battle-brothers tried to restrain him.

But he could see nothing. Was he blind? Had that single desperate blow rendered him useless?

Desperate to know, not caring that he was giving in to fear, he pulled at his helmet, straining against the seals with all his might.

The helmet came away, and light replaced the darkness. As he got to his feet, he saw his attacker lying on the ground, blood seeping from a gash in the side of his head. Looking around, he saw blood dripping from Brother Takato's gauntlet.

"It was a psyker, Brother-Sergeant," the marine explained. "Losing control. I have seen it before."

"Most of the enemy officers are," Hikaru replied. "You did your duty."

Trapped with their backs to the river and Space Marines advancing, Tamufiel and her remaining officers knew that it was hopeless.

There was no way to cross the river, as all the vehicles had been destroyed. And they did not need a written communication to tell them that the Centurions had failed to hold the line.

A morning mist hung over the river, undisturbed by the violence in the camp. Tamufiel peered through it, trying to make out the opposite bank. Even if all of their repulsorcraft were lost, getting her feet wet would be a small price to pay for even a small chance at survival.

Beside her, Shiniiur was watching her back, his weapon drawn. The young Subaltern looked as though he could fight off the Space Marines all by himself. But Tamufiel had seen him jump when someone dropped a spoon at a Banquet. He would probably not survive this day.

And that would probably be a mercy. Tamufiel did not want to think what would happen if they were taken alive. Interrogation was most likely; torture even more so. Slow, lingering death in the darkness was a certainty.

Better to die this day, if there could be no escape. While it was her duty to at least attempt to remain alive and free, there was no pressing need. The _Kamiumo_ had managed to escape, and would bear the warning to the Alliance. All that remained was to either avoid capture until rescued, or die to deny the Imperials information.

She knew what would happen. She knew, even as she tried to concentrate on finding an escape. She knew, because she had seen it.

Tamufiel knew things. She knew about the Alliance. She knew of its starships, its war machines, its armies of Humanoids. She knew about the Synod, and about the powers of the inner mind. If the enemy were to extract this knowledge from her, and she knew that they would, then it might doom her people.

Everyone talks in the end.

That was why there would always be torture.

That was why she had to escape.

She could hear the stamping of their armoured feet. She could hear the gunfire. She could hear their singing.

_"Non nobis Imperator, _

_non nobis Imperator, _

_sed nomine,_

_sed nomine,_

_tu alta gloria." _

Knowing that there was no other option, Tamufiel stepped tentatively into the shallows. She shivered as the cold water soaked through her white uniform pants, but carried on regardless.

For a moment, there was a tingle of excitement. The river was relatively shallow here. They might be able to head down river and lose the enemies in the mist. They would have to sacrifice the remaining Centurions, but that was war.

Then she recoiled as something burst outof the water. A loud crack deafened her as she fell, making the splash from behind seem very far away.

Some impulse ran along her arm and pulled the trigger of her En-pistol. A flurry of energy bolts peppered the huge figure, tearing away the soaked robes that covered it. The shredded cloth fell to reveal jet-black armour, somewhat different to that worn by the red-armoured enemies but evidently the same.

As she continued firing, mortal terror locking her trigger-finger in place, she saw the blood trickle past her, blending with the icy water.

As final sights went, it was rather artistic.

And that was her final thought, before the boltgun cracked again.

The figure looked up from the mortal remains of Tamufiel and Shiniiur. The Crimson Guardians had reached the river bank.

"Hold!" Hikaru called, keeping his bolt pistol level. The other thirty-nine tactical Marines and twenty Assualt Marines did likewise, with aim unwavering.

The figure did not seem afraid. It stepped slowly from the red-running river, stopping on the bank and facing the Crimson Guardians.

It was certainly a sight to see. The figure wore power armour like their own, but Crusade-pattern, as opposed to their Codex-pattern armour. The boltgun it carried seemed to date from the same era, despite being in perfect working order.

"State your rank and Chapter," Hikaru demanded, stepping up to face the stranger. "We know not your colours."

The figure did not reply. Instead it reached to its neck and took hold of its helmet, lifting it off with a hiss of atmosphere exchange.

The Crimson Guardians stared in wonder at the face it had hidden. Shaven-headed, brow lined with service studs, right cheek piously tattooed with the Imperial Eagle, eyes full of a sorrow that seemed as old as time.

"I am Brother-Sergeant Adamar of his Imperial Majesty's First Legion Astartes, the Dark Angels. Second Company, Fifth Chapter. I know not who you are, but I have travelled many light-years and endured many trials in search of true servants of the Emperor. I have witnessed your fight against a most powerful foe, and you fought and served as Space Marines should."

"Why are you here, Dark Angel?" Hikaru asked, trying to hide is incredulity. "Why are you not with your Chapter?"

"They are not my Chapter," Adamar replied. "None of them are. They would do anything to keep me from carrying out my mission. For I carry with me a secret that has lain hidden for ten-thousand years; a secret which the Emperor has bidden me pass on to those who are worthy to hear it.

Hear me, if you be true sons of the Emperor. Hear me, for my brethren's sake, and for Him-on-Earth."

(How's this for an ending? Do you agree with Adamar's appraisal of the Crimson Guardian's performance or could they have done better? Can you figure out what the Maximilian Protocol is? Please RR!)

By the way, for those who are interested, here is the translation of the song from earlier.

Not unto us o Emperor,

Not unto us o Emperor,

But unto thy name,

But unto thy name,

Give glory.

(Anyone who has seen the movie 'Henry V' will know the tune. It seemed like the sort of thing they might sing.)


	6. Vouchsafe unto me thy truth, o Lord

(Thank you all very much for reviewing. Without your support, I could not have gotten this far. Please read and enjoy!)

_

* * *

_

_"O holy God-Emperor, Lord-on-Earth, have mercy on these thy servants, as their doom doth come upon them._

_Grant them the wisdom to accept their fate, the fate of all that live, to die._

_Grant them the strength to endure this trial, as thou doth endure._

_Grant unto them, o Lord, thine eternal salvation. Let thy mercy be given unto them at the hour of their judgement._

_Immortal Lord, guardian of us all, we beseech thy forgiveness for this act committed in thy name, and in the name of all mankind. _

_Blessed is he who is slain that his brother might live. _

_Blessed is he who slays his brother that his race might live."_

_From the Prayer of Exterminatus_

* * *

As the sound of gunfire faded away, the vengeance of the Crimson Guardians was complete.

The Alliance Base-camp had been overrun, its inhabitants put to the sword, as the colonists had been. The bodies of the Alliance soldiers were nailed to crude crucifixes, fashioned from pieces of wreckage, and left around the ruins of their camp. All were dead, or else beyond the help of Apothecary Seitaro, sparing the Crimson Guardians the obligation to keep them alive.

One or two were still conscious, howling for mercy or shrieking expletives as the nails pierced their wrists and legs. When Chaplain Yukio offered them contrition, only one accepted. There, nailed and bleeding, he received the last rites while his former comrades screamed abuse. Then, the ritual completed, Yukio razed his Crozius Arcanum high and caved in his skull, sparing him the agony.

There they would remain, hanging forever in macabre repose; a warning to those who would harm the Emperor's subjects.

While most of the Space Marines checked their equipment or prayed, Captain Senshiro, the Apothecary and the Chaplain retreated to the nearest place of privacy, the Land Raider _Sword of Truth. _

"What of him Seitaro?" Senshiro asked, gesturing at Adamar. The Dark Angel had been permitted to retain his armour, though only after it had been thoroughly checked by Techmarine Kenichi. There was no possibility of treachery.

"The analysis is complete, Brother-Captain," the Apothecary replied. "His gene-seed is consistent with that of the Dark Angels Chapter. Also, there are no signs of corruption."

"The mark of the enemy will make itself plain to see" Chaplain Yukio intoned.

"Now will you believe me!?" Adamar pleaded. "Will you believe that I am untainted!?"

"Very well," Senshiro replied guardedly. "But you have not yet explained yourself. Why have you come here? Why did you seek us out? What is this secret that you seem so desperate to tell us?"

"Before that, there is one thing I must ask, Lord Senshiro." If such a thing was possible, Adamar seemed even more ill-at-ease. This displeased Senshiro, for nervousness was unbecoming in a Space Marine.

"Yes, what is it?" he gruffly responded.

"My Lord," Adamar paused, glancing from one to another of his interrogators. "I have heard in telling that the Crimson Guardians will give sanctuary to those who ask it of them. Is that true?"

"It is."

"Then I, Adamar, do beg the sanctuary and protection of the Crimson Guardians." He drew himself up, switching to formal High Gothic. "I give thee my parole and my promise, that the honour of all the Adeptus Astartes be sullied if I transgress from thy gracious will and pleasure. I pledge myself unto thy command, until such time as thou should see fit to release me, or else my life be ended."

There was silence. The assembled Marines stared at their prisoner, though their countenances betrayed nothing of what they felt. It was true that the Crimson Guardians were givers of sanctuary, and that Adamar had asked it of them in accordance with the proper conventions, but they knew better than to grant it off hand.

"Dost thou pledge to show us no hostility?" Senshiro was first to speak, giving the correct reply to such a request. "Wouldst thou place thy body and thy mind in the service of us, and thy soul in the service of Him-on-Earth? Wilt thou be true to thy promise, forsaking all other allegiance but to the Emperor?"

"Yay, for I do pledge it." The tension was soul-bending. Time seemed to stand still.

"Then I, Brother-Captain Senshiro, Lord-Commander of the Third Company of His Majesty the Emperor's Space Marine Chapter, the Crimson Guardians, do accept thy parole and place you, Adamar, under our protection."

"My lord!" Yukio gasped. "Is that…wise?"

"It is our way, Chaplain," Senshiro replied sternly. "Or have you forgotten?"

"With respect my Lord," Kenichi interjected, "I think it only proper that our guest," he gestured at Adamar, who had not even been allowed to thank his benefactors, "provide us with some answers."

"Which questions would these be, Kenichi?" Senshiro asked reasonably.

"For one thing," the Techmarine rounded on Adamar, his eyes full of suspicion and mistrust. "Your armour is crusade-pattern, a type not used in many centuries. Your weapons seem to hail from the same era, yet in spite of their age they function as though they were brand-new. How do you account for this, Adamar of the Dark Angels?"

"That…I will answer," Adamar was struggling to acquire the noble countenance expected of a Space Marine. "Mine is a dread tale, but I tale that must be told. The secrets hidden in darkness must be brought out into the light, no matter what the cost, or the unforgiven will find no absolution. The sons of the lion must cower in shadows no longer, for there lies the path to despair, and despair to the enemy."

"Enough riddles!" Kenichi snarled. "Tell us the truth now!"

"Attempt no deception," Librarian Ieyasu spoke for the first time, seated furthest from Adamar. "If you do, I will know it. You have no defence but the truth, no refuge but the keeping of your word."

Adamar was silent for a moment, his eyes closed. His countenance was that of a man examining his deepest soul.

"You know of the Great Crusade that took place ten thousand years ago. You know of the treachery of Horus, of the destruction he wrought over the Imperium. But for every tiny nuance, every small detail that you have heard, a thousand tales remain untold, a thousand truths hidden, a thousand lies perpetrated. One of these truths regards my legion, the First, the most favoured, the Dark Angels.

When the Primarch Lion El-Jonson left to join the Great Crusade, he took with him but half of his legion. The rest he left upon his homeworld of Caliban, under the command of his mentor Luthor."

Adamar paused to draw breath, doing so slowly, as though forcing himself to continue.

"When Horus turned traitor, none of us knew for certain what was happening. We were isolated, alone on the edge of the Occularis Terribilis, with only contradictory reports from outside to tell us of what was occurring.

What we also did not realise, and what we could never have thought possible, was the change in Luthor's heart. For you see, Luthor had been both mentor and confidante to the Lion ever since his coming to Caliban. To left behind like that, far from the battles and the glory of the Great Crusade, made Luthor wonder as to whether his devotion was requited. Had he been left on Caliban because he alone could be trusted to guard their sacred homeworld? Or did the Lion have no further use for him?

Either way, the question gnawed at Luthor, his noble heart growing cold and dark as he slowly became convinced of the Lion's rejection of him. Of this I am sure, my Lords, more than anything else. It was this belief that drove him to despair, and into the arms of Chaos."

There was a collective moan of horror and surprise.

"You lie!" Yukio spluttered. "Surely he lies!" he turned from one to the other of his fellows, seeking their agreement. "This cannot have happened!"

"It is true that we have had our differences with them in the past," Senshiro was the only one to remain calm. "But even so, this seems unlikely."

"It is the truth!" Adamar roared, his composure thrown to the wind. "I do not lie in this!" He half-turned and pointed an accusing finger at Ieyasu. "The psyker will tell you so!"

"I sense no deception from him," the Librarian replied, still pale from the after-effects of the Maximilian protocol.

"Very well," Kenichi had somehow managed to calm down. "But, Dark Angel, are we correct in assuming that you were one of those who served Luthor?" His eyes were full of barely-contained hate.

"It is true," Adamar reluctantly continued, "that myself and my company were on Caliban when the Lion returned. But we knew nothing of what was really happening. When Luthor called us to the Tower of Angels I was confused, not understanding the meaning of it. But when I heard him speak, the seeds of suspicion were sown. I saw that a proud and noble man had suddenly become a ranting demagogue, spitting his venom into the eyes and hearts of many of us."

Adamar hung his head, and Senshiro could have sworn that there were tears in the fallen angel's eyes, if such a thing were even possible.

"I should have seen the wickedness that had taken hold of them. I should have seen those events for what they really were, but my weakness and confusion prevented it."

"Why do you tell us this?" Senshiro asked, his shock replaced by a sudden and uncontrollable curiosity. "Why do you reveal this dreadful secret?"

"Because it is a secret!" Adamar's rage blazed forth as though it were blasphemy to have even asked. "We were the Dark Angels, the First, the most perfect, the most noble! What need had we for secrets!? What need had we to hide anything, to deny anything!? We never regretted anything, for the Emperor chose us for his Space Marines!

Yet for a hundred years I wandered the galaxy that we conquered for him, and saw only desolation and decay! I saw my once-noble brethren strut the battlefield under banners of honour. Yet when they were alone in the dark with nought but their own thoughts for companionship, a state of being with I am _intimately _familiar, the truth gnawed at them. It haunted them, consumed them. They feared those they were meant to protect. They feared condemnation; they feared that the masses of humanity would turn their rage upon them.

For them, no sacrifice was too small to keep the truth hidden. A thousand times they fled the battlefield in pursuit of the fallen, leaving Imperial citizens to die at the hands of the alien and the heretic; heaven forbid that the Dark Angels be dishonoured!

You must understand, my Lords, that if the secret is revealed unto all humanity, then my brethren will have no further reason to hide. Only when they face the truth, and return to the destiny that the Emperor intended for them, will my brethren find the forgiveness they crave."

The assembled Crimson Guardians stared silently at him for a long time as the terrible revelation sank in. What would this mean for them? Would the Dark Angels simply allow such dreadful things to be said of them?

"You…" Kenichi, who was not usually given to anger, stuttered in barely-contained rage. "You have brought destruction upon us! We have given sanctuary to a pariah! The Dark Angels will show us no mercy! You shall die for this!"

His bolt pistol was half out of its holster before Yukio interceded, placing a hand on Kenichi's arm to stop him.

"No Brother Kenichi. You must calm yourself."

"How can I!?" Kenichi roared, looking as though he was going to strike the Chaplain. "How can I, when this…this _Traitor_ has doomed us all!?"

"I disagree with Brother Kenichi's interpretation of our guest," Ieyasu spoke up. "But he is nonetheless correct. We are in great danger."

A sudden beeping from one of the wall-mounted consoles brought an end to the conversation. Senshiro moved over to it, keying in his identification and reading the message.

For a few minutes there was silence, then Senshiro turned to face the others, his face grim.

"It seems, my brothers, that the situation has changed. Ship-Master Saburota reports that a Battle-Barge of the Angels of Vengeance has exited warpspace and will enter orbit within the hour."

"What do they want?" Apothecary Seitaro asked. "You don't suppose they…?"

He broke off, the obvious implications left unsaid.

"It is so," Adamar eventually confirmed. "They have been pursuing me for some time." He turned to face Senshiro. "My Lord, you must turn me over to them immediately. I will endure their tortures, but you must not suffer for my sins."

"He's right!" Kenshiro said suddenly. "We gain nothing by dying here!"

"You must think of the Chapter, Brother-Captain," Seitaro added. "If we die here, our progenoids will surely be lost. An entire company is too great a sacrifice. We must safeguard our future."

There was a long pause. Eventually Senshiro spoke.

"No."

No one managed a reply. The shock was too much.

"My Lord?" Kenichi was as pale as Ieyasu.

"No Brother Kenichi, we will not turn Adamar over to the Angels of Vengeance." Senshiro's tone was steady, his eyes grim.

"My Lord!" Seitaro blurted out. "What of our gene-seed!? What of the Chapter!?"

"That talk is what made our enemies what they are!" the Captain roared back. "Always putting themselves before their duties! Always worrying about what was good for them and not what was good for the Imperium!

Brothers, we are better than that. So it was ordained, so it shall be." Senshiro drew himself up, his presence expanding to fill the Land Raider and encompass all those present, drawing them into its embrace.

"When we were but aspirants, we swore sacred oaths to the Emperor, to honour, and to protect his people, no matter what the cost. Always we have carried out our duties, while other Chapters think only of themselves. We have taken a lost soul under our protection. Do we know throw him to the wolves? Do we sacrifice our honour, our code, to please those who have not the courage to do what the Emperor ordained them to do?

Nay, my brothers. To ourselves we must be true. Shall we abandon a servant of the Emperor whom we have sworn to protect? Nay, for he was born to save us.

Shall we sully our honour, and our oaths to Him-on-Earth, in return for our lives?"

"Nay, for he fought for us," they whispered back, ashamed of themselves.

"Shall we fail in our sacred duties? Shall we abandon our oaths? Shall we deny our code, our very being?"

"Nay, for he suffered for us." This time a little louder.

"Shall we fall from the pedestal upon which he placed us!? Shall we be anything less than what we truly are!?"

"Nay, for he died for us!" they roared back.

"Are we lies in the place of his truth!?"

"Nay, for he died for us!" this time Adamar joined in.

"Are we hypocrites?"

"Nay, for he died for us!"

"Are we traitors!?"

"NAY, FOR HE DIED FOR US!"

* * *

(Sorry it took so long. University is very demanding, but I'll try to update as regularly as possible. I'll explain the 'Maximilian Protocol' in full by the end of the story. I think its pretty obvious how this is going to end, but I'll do my best to keep surprising you. Do you like the fluff at the beginning of each chapter? Please Review and tell me!) 


	7. They shall be Pure of Heart

"_From Terra you came unto us_

_And lifted our despair_

_You struck down the murderous heretic_

_And drove him from his lair_

_Unto you our mighty saviour _

_Our devotion we declare_

_For you are marching on!_

_My life for thee Imperator_

_My life for thee Imperator_

_My life for thee Imperator_

_For you are marching on!"_

_Imperial Guard __Battle__ Hymn, originating from the __Manassas__ Insurrection. _

* * *

Aboard the Battle-Barge _Heart of Thunder_, Captain Jophiel stared at the green, brown and blue sphere floating before him.

How serene it seemed.

How utterly unaware of what would soon befall it.

"My Lord, we have achieved orbit."

"Begin scans now."

"Yes my Lord," Jophiel continued to regard the planet as Interrogator-Chaplain Arbatel headed over to observe the Servitors at work.

Emperor-willing, this was it. The culmination of years of painstaking investigation and endless searching. A Fallen one was within his grasp.

And it was worth it, Jophiel knew. It was worth any amount of searching, any amount of sacrifice. This was the only means by which the honour of the sons of Jonson could be restored. Only through this travail could they earn the Emperor's forgiveness.

This particular fallen, the one called Adamar, was probably the most dangerous ever encountered. It was known to Jophiel that this Fallen was unrepentant, though that was not unusual. Most Fallen refused the salvation offered them.

What made this Adamar so dangerous was that he intended to reveal the dark secrets of the Unforgiven to others. This obscenity was the reward of almost ten years of work by Arbatel on a particularly recalcitrant Fallen. Such information was worth every agonising minute.

"My Lord, scanners detect approximately one-hundred Space Marines on the surface. The Crimson Guardians vessels are requesting contact."

"Stall them."

Jophiel did not know how the Crimson Guardians had gotten involved, but it no longer really mattered. If there was any possibility, the slightest chance, then they would have to be destroyed.

"Arbatel, what is the possibility of them having come into contact with our quarry?"

"Fairly low, my lord," the Interrogator-Chaplain replied cautiously. "Nevertheless, it would be safer to eliminate them."

"You realise what you are saying Arbatel," Jophiel' tone was as grim as his centuries-old features. "You suggest that we turn on our fellow Astartes with only a burden of suspicion over what is not even an official crime against the Imperium. You speak of dire heresy Arbatel."

"No worse than if our secrets were to escape!" Arbatel shrieked. "At any cost!" At any price! We must prevent it my Lord! We MUST!"

Jophiel turned away and returned his gaze to the planet.

He was three hundred and twenty-eight years old, but had little to show for it at first glance. The gene-seed of the Lion had reduced the effects of ageing, leaving him with the tight-skinned face of his thirtieth mortal year, his twentieth as a Space Marine of the Angels of Vengeance. But his flesh was no longer young, pitted with the scars of ancient battle-wounds. His hair was long gone, leaving a bald pate tattooed with pious symbols and pierced with service studs.

But even his fearsome countenance only hinted at what this particular Space Marine had seen and experienced.

And he knew what it meant to turn on another Space Marine Chapter. The overwhelming need for secrecy had led him along some difficult paths indeed.

He also knew not to tangle with the Inquisition. Jophiel had been forced to dispose of one meddlesome Inquisitor already. It was not an experience he wished to repeat.

"You are right of course," Jophiel said eventually. "Even if they did not encounter him, they must be killed to ensure security. The only real problem is the brothers."

Jophiel was in command of a force of almost two-hundred marines, which included four squads of First Company Terminators. These were members of an elite force that existed within each successor Chapter of the Dark Angels legion known as the Deathwing. Of all the Space Marines of the unforgiven, only those of the Deathwing knew the truth. They could be relied upon.

The problem was persuading the remaining brother-marines, who knew nothing of their dark heritage. They would find the coming battle spiritually distressing. Worse, it might lead to undesirable curiosity and questioning where faith was needed more than ever.

Then a movement out among the starry expanse drew him from his dark thoughts. As he focussed, he realised that it was the Strike Cruiser identified in the registry as the _Abukama_. It was coming about as though to break orbit.

Jophiel was surprised. Were they leaving? No ships had ascended or descended, and no teleportation had been detected.

Were they leaving their own marines behind?

Jophiel was not sure, but of one thing he was quite certain. If the enemy, yes they were now the enemy, was suddenly leaving, then it could only mean that they had discerned his intentions. Why else would they run from brother Space-Marines if they had not come with intent to commit fratricide?

There was nothing for it, no other options remaining.

"Helm, full forward! Ordnance, load torpedo tubes! Thunderhawks stand by! All guns ready for action! Marines to the Drop Pods!"

Jophiel felt the shudder as _Heart of Thunder_ accelerated. He watched for a few moments as the enemy ships grew larger and larger, noting the Gladius-class Frigates _Mercurius _and _Damocles _as they moved into position, then left to don his armour.

* * *

As the _Abukama_ came about, Saburota gazed longingly at the planet below him, wishing that this did not have to be.

The orders made sense. Cold, callous sense, but sense nonetheless. Save the ships, get reinforcements and come back as fast as their ships could carry them, hoping against hope that there was someone left to save.

Save the ships. Three _very_ expensive ships that could not easily be replaced. Saving them was certainly cost-effective, even if only the _Abukama _escaped.

If the Third Company could hold out long enough, then Crimson Guardians reinforcements would surely drive the enemy away.

If they held out long enough.

No matter how he looked at it, no matter how he justified it, he was leaving nearly one hundred of his Space Marine Lords to die. That it was on the direct orders of Captain Senshiro was immaterial. The simple, terrible truth of it was enough to rend his soul in two.

But what else could he do? If he sent down the Thunderhawks or attempted teleportation, then the Battle-barge would surely detect it. The result would be swift and fiery death. Not only that, but the loss of the Third Company's only hope of rescue.

And to make matters even worse, he could not even offer his Lords a proper explanation as to what had happened. He had only the logged recording of the final transmission from the surface. It would prove that the withdrawal was ordered, exonerating himself and the crew of any possible blame.

But this was no comfort. In his own eyes, Saburota was worthy only of condemnation. If not by the Chapter, then by the Emperor.

_"I am damned for this" _he thought as the _Abukama_ drew him further and further from his Lords. _"It is no more than I deserve."_

"Ship-Master!" yelled a lesser chapter-serf named Kane. "The Battle-barge is moving to intercept!"

For a few moments Saburota ignored his subordinate. If the _Heart of Thunder_ intended to destroy them, he welcomed it. Anything was better than this shame.

"Ship-master! What is the meaning of this!?" Saburota was shocked back to the present as Brother Katsuo stormed onto the Bridge. "Why are we breaking orbit!?"

"I have orders," he replied. "The Captain has commanded that we withdraw and return with reinforcements from my Lords on Nihon."

"The Homeworld!?" exclaimed Katsuo. "But that's fifty light-years away!" He was about to continue, but for having glanced out of the starboard viewport, where the approaching Battle-Barge was a mere speck even to his enhanced eyes.

"Focus quadrant delta-five!" he barked at a nearby servitor. The servitor made no reply, but simply complied. The main hologram projector, situated in the middle of the upper command dais, hummed into life. Katsuo turned from the viewport and stared at the image in mounting disbelief.

"Enemy is venting!" Kane called from his post. "Many small contacts!"

"Starboard opticon, focus on contacts and identify!" Saburota barked.

"Starboard opticon reporting," came the response after a tense pause. "Objects are drop-pods."

There was nothing to be done for it. With the _Heart of Thunder_ jamming their communications and the astropaths still recovering from the Maximilian Protocol, there was no way of warning those on the surface.

"Reaching warp threshold. Transference in thirty seconds. Let all thoughts be holy and all intentions pure. The Emperor protects."

Katsuo and Saburota watched together in despair for the final moments. Space Marine and Chapter-serf, master and servant, both could only gaze at the world below them, wishing that what was did not have to be, praying silently for a miracle.

Then the great adamantium doors closed over the viewports, shielding those inside from the horrors of the warp.

"What will become of them?" Brother Katsuo wondered aloud.

"Only the Emperor knows," the Ship-Master replied.

* * *

Around the town of Picard's Landing, the Angels of Vengeance massed for the attack.

Numbering almost two-hundred, they were not enough to completely encircle the small settlement. The Tactical squads were arranged around the outer perimeter with the task of attacking whatever Crimson Guardian units they encountered, thus preventing them from supporting one-another. This would allow the Assault Marines to push towards the centre, where the target was no-doubt located. Terminator Squads would teleport down in support as soon as the Assault squads had penetrated far enough.

It made sense that the Crimson Guardians would retreat to this position. The buildings afforded them an abundance of cover and few of the streets were wide enough for tanks. Not that the Angels of Vengeance had any, having landed in drop-pods and with their Battle-Barge out of orbit in what had become a futile pursuit of the fleeing _Abukama. _They would have to make do with the two dreadnoughts and the Devastator squads that had landed with them.

To make matters even more complicated, Captain Jophiel had ordered his marines to use their heavy weapons sparingly, to guard against the risk of accidentally killing the target. All others, however, had to die.

Captain Senshiro knew that they were coming. He could not see them, but he knew that they were there.

He was ready for them. His squads would fight and die to hold off the Angels of Vengeance for as long as possible. He, his Command squad and Terminator squad Ashitaka would remain in the centre of the town, guarding the vital Whirlwinds, which represented the major tactical advantage.

If the Angels of Vengeance could be forced to retreat, then they might have a chance. Reinforcements might arrive and they might be saved.

Senshiro knew this. He knew it as well as he knew how unlikely it was. His enemies were as powerful and skilled in the ways of war as they were unwavering in their devotion. Soon they would pit that devotion against that of the Crimson Guardians, and to Senshiro, there was only one likely victor.

It was all Senshiro could do not to despair. He had been in this situation many times. Often the Crimson Guardians would stay and fight when other Space Marines might have retreated, fighting for the weak and the helpless, dying that they might live, bringing the Chapter ever closer to disaster as their progenoids were left behind, lost forever.

_"Little Brother-Captain," _came a strange voice through his helmet communicator.

For a moment Senshiro was startled, wondering who it was that had spoken. Then, as understanding dawned, he walked over to the Dreadnaught Shikanosuke.

_"Shikanosuke does not understand. Why do little brothers fight little brothers?"_

"Because they mean to kill us," Senshiro replied through his comm-link. "Because we must survive." The machine was vast, more than twice his height. It was mounted with pious symbols and bearing a tall pole from which hung an icon depicting the hero Shikanosuke has he had been in life, wearing the artificier armour that Senshiro wore now. One arm bore twin lascannons, the barrels still scorched after fighting only a few hours earlier. Upon the other was mounted a power fist that could punch through the strongest armour.

_"Do little brothers fight to protect other little brother?"_

"Yes," Senshiro believed that the Dreadnaught was referring to Adamar, who stood a few feet away, weapons at the ready.

_"Shikanosuke will fight. Fight for little brothers. Like before."_

Drawn by some stranger inner feeling, Senshiro reached tentatively out and laid one armoured hand upon the ornate sarcophagus. It was a foolish and sentimental gesture, but he could not help himself. The Crimson Guardians were a young chapter, and its few Dreadnaughts were particularly revered.

But there was more to it than that. A Dreadnaught was the ultimate representation of the purpose of the Space Marines. It also represented the sacrifices made by each and every one of them, the surrender of their humanity to preserve the humanity of others.

_"Little brothers are fighting. Shikanosuke must go."_

And Senshiro could hear the fighting too. From all around came a dull cacophony of weapons fire. The crack of boltguns, the shriek of missiles, the battle-cries.

It had begun.

(That took some doing. Fighting against writers block and coursework, I have finally finished this chapter. The song at the beginning is sung to the tune of 'Battle Hymn of the Republic.' It's not very original and I apologise, but it seems to work. Please RR.)


	8. E'en though I walk in the vale of death

_"Imperator be with us_

_Fear not the Psyker_

_Help us keep your sacred trust_

_Fear not the Psyker_

_Lift our weary hearts o Lord_

_Fear not the Psyker_

_Make us your avenging sword_

_Fear not the Psyker._

_Strengthen us in our travail,_

_Fear not the Psyker._

_To you our might we shall avail,_

_Fear not the Psyker"_

_Psyker's prayer of abrogation against corruption._

* * *

The Angels of Vengeance were ready.

Almost three-hundred marines, backed by four dreadnaughts, surrounded the small town. They had their orders. Advance simultaneously, attacking all at once so as to prevent Crimson Guardians units from supporting one-another. Captain Jophiel would teleport into the fray with the First Company Terminators once the defenders had been pushed into the centre of the town. The black-armoured marine was to be taken alive at any cost. All others had to die.

It was not going to be easy. Even with a three-to-one numerical advantage, the Angels of Vengeance had only their Dreadnoughts and Devastator Squads with which to provide fire support, whereas the Crimson Guardians had their vehicles including a pair of Whirlwinds. Captain Jophiel was unwilling to use the heavier firepower at his disposal for fear of accidentally killing the target.

Interrogator-Chaplain Arbatel was at the forefront, leading his command Squad eastward along the main road, backed up by Tactical Squads Israfel and Gedariah. The sound of bolter fire could be heard all around them, indicating that the other squads had launched their attacks on schedule. The thirty marines advanced, their black armour gleaming in the early-afternoon sun. Weaving between the heaps of wreckage and stepping through the craters, they headed eastward towards the centre of the town, where the enemy artillery and command was waiting.

Brother Candriel fell backwards, blood gushing from the scorched hole in his helmet. Squad Israfel spread out, hiding from the murderous bolter-volleys in the rubble. Arbatel looked frantically from left to right, trying to find his persecutors even as they poured bolter shells into Squad Gedariah, which had been slower to go to ground. Brother Bathor and Brother Cassiel paid for that temerity with their lives.

Then the Interrogator-chaplain saw a speck of red amongst the rubble in front of them. Looking closer, he could make our more of them, his enhanced eyes showing him a tactical squad of Crimson Guardians Space Marines.

"TARGETS TO YOUR FRONT!" he roared, the exhilaration of battle overriding the niceties of comm-discipline. The remaining Angels responded with deadly efficiency, and Arbatel was satisfied to see two Crimson Guardians go down as Squads Israfel and Gedariah returned fire. As Apothecary Mumiah tended to the fallen brothers, Arbatel stood firm, exposed though he was, his plasma pistol spitting incandescent death at the traitors who dared to bar his way.

The danger meant nothing to Arbatel. Though his duties were mostly performed in the darkest places, he was still a Chaplain, tasked to inspire and lead his brethren. He would not take cover, he would not back down, though he might forfeit his life for it.

"INCOMING!" yelled one of the marines, and Arbatel noted one of the plume of smoke arcing out of the sky towards him. It was already too late. Whispering a prayer to Lion El-Jonson, Arbatel stood firm, staring straight ahead as the missile struck home.

The noise filled his ears, all he saw was light. Was this the end? Was this the conclusion of his service. He seemed to be floating, drifting gently backwards, the roar of the explosion seeming to fade away, replaced with peaceful silence.

He hit the road with a crash, the impact abruptly ending the moment. As his brain fought off concussion, Arbatel looked about in confusion, wondering what had happened. Struggling to his feet, ignoring the whoosh and crack of bolter fire, Arbatel saw the survivors picking themselves up, and the splattered blood that remained of those less fortunate.

As fury overwhelmed his self-control, Arbatel decided that there was only one way forward. He raised his Crozius Arcanum high.

"For the Emperor! For the Lion!"

Arbatel rushed forward, leaping over chunks of wreckage that would have halted a lesser man, the remnants of his command squad hot on his heels. With a roar, the surviving marines joined the charge.

As the distance closed Arbatel could see his enemies more clearly. There were eight of them, clad in armour of red and gold. An icon hung from a pole set on the Sergeant's backpack, emblazoned with a golden gauntlet raised in benediction, upon which an Imperial aquila perched.

The pious symbol enraged Arbatel even more. How dare these heretics wear the badges of the Imperium! How dare they claim virtue and vindication over the children of the Lion! By all the blessed Saints, he would burn every such banner in this place before the day was out!

Finally the enemy was within reach. The first target was right in front of him, raising his boltgun to fire. Arbatel brought his Crozius down on the marine's head, smashing through the helmet in a welter of blood. The marine slumped to the ground, but already the Interrogator-Chaplain had reached his next target. Within seconds his brethren were at his side as the combat degenerated into a confused melee.

* * *

Brother-Sergeant Hikaru snapped off another shot, then ducked as a returning volley whistled over his head and struck the ceiling, showering him in concrete dust.

He and his squad had been in the building for almost two hours, most of which had been spent harassing the three enemy tactical squads scrabbling about in the streets below. When he could spare a few moments for thought, Hikaru was wondering just what he was going to do. Ammunition was beginning to run low and the already damaged hab-unit would not stand up to the heavy weapons of enemy Devastator Squads. Once they were in position, things were going to get rather unpleasant.

But that changed nothing. Hikaru knew what his mission was, to cause as many casualties as possible and force the enemy to retreat. If the Captain was correct, then reinforcements would arrive within a few days.

That was not the only thing he had been told. He and his fellow Sergeants had been told the real reason why this battle was taking place, why fellow Space Marines were trying to kill them.

He had heard the story of the Fallen Angels, and from the moment of its completion he had known that the Captain was lying.

They would not survive this day. The reinforcements would not arrive in time. The Angels of Vengeance would never allow them to escape, even if it meant all-out war between two Space Marine Chapters. A war that the Crimson Guardians had little hope of winning if the other 'unforgiven' got involved, and surely they would.

Who would help the Crimson Guardians then? A Chapter that claimed to be without hate, a Chapter sworn to the defence of the helpless over the slaughter of mankind's enemies. Who would bother?

It no longer mattered. For now there was only the battle, and battles were to be won. That was something all Space Marines had in common, regardless of their particular reasons for fighting.

And for all their hypocrisy, for all their supposed cowardice, the Angels of Vengeance were still Space Marines, deserving of a worthy battle.

And a warrior's death.

Hikaru paused, waiting for a lull in the shooting. When the firing died away he straightened up, levelling his bolt pistol to fire at the enemy marine who was only now only twenty feet away.

_"Under fire from two sides and still they advance"_ Hikaru thought with grudging respect as he squeezed the trigger. His target slumped forward and Hikaru was quickly scanning the debris for another target.

"Brother-Sergeant!" Hikaru looked up, annoyed at having his concentration broken, to see that it was Brother Kaworu who had called him. He was suddenly reminded about the loss of his helmet, forcing him to rely on direct verbal communication, a difficult feat in the middle of a firefight.

"Brother-Sergeant, we must fall back!" Kaworu's face was hidden behind his helmet, but Hikaru could tell that he was nervous. "We cannot hold this building, there are too many of them!"

"I command here, Brother Kaworu!" Hikaru snapped in reply. "Our orders are to hold the line! We retreat when I say so and not before!"

Cowed, Brother Kaworu returned to his post, but despite the anger and stress threatening to overwhelm him, Hikaru could not help but pity the younger marine. Kaworu had earned his armour only a few months earlier, and Hikaru remembered how eager he had been, how overawed to be assigned to _his_ squad, to be under the command of the _famous_ Brother-Sergeant Hikaru.

How unfortunate that his service to the Emperor was to end in such circumstances.

The building shook, bringing clouds of dust floating down from the ceiling. Hikaru knew the sensation well. The enemy Devastator Squads were in position.

"Brother Takato!" he yelled through the cacophony, and felt somewhat relieved when the marine responded. "Ready the Squad to evacuate, this building's coming down!"

Brother Takato did not reply, but simply set to it. It irked Hikaru to have to lead the squad through him, but with his helmet ruined there was no option. Brother Takato was his most experienced subordinate and Hikaru trusted him over all the others. He would make a fine Sergeant.

Or he would have, had fate not been so cruel.

Shaking the thoughts away, Hikaru headed for the door to the street, proudly noting that his seven remaining marines were already set to leave. Brother Takeshi would have to be left behind, as Brother Nobiyuki and Brother Katsuhito had been. There was no other way.

He glanced through the doorway. In the building directly across the street from him, Squad Katsuyori was holed up. To his right, a great mound of rubble was completely blocking the street. Hikaru was sure that there would be Angels of Vengeance on it, ready to fire the moment they emerged.

Brother Hidetora, throwing caution to the wind, leapt through the doorway and sprinting across the debris-ridden street.

And was flung sideways as a volley of bolter shells riddled his body.

Hikaru cursed. Brother Hidetora had always been reckless, and now his squad was down to six. What was he trying to prove!?

With a roar of vengeance, Brother Jubei stormed out into the street. Before the enemies could react, Jubei hefted his heavy bolter and opened fire.

Two enemies were flung backwards, dead or merely wounded, Hikaru could not tell. One rolled down the mound, howling in agony, his left leg blown clean off. Brother Hidetora had sacrificed himself to reveal them.

Hikaru wanted to chastise Jubei for his recklessness but there was no time, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. He sprinted out of the building, ignoring the fire of the two remaining Angels on top of the mound. They were already pinned down by Brother Jubei and would be little threat for the moment.

But his jubilation was short-lived as the building in which Squad Katsuyori was sheltering took two more hits. The enemy Devastators had the range and the target.

"Brother Takato! Have Squad Katsuyori evacuate the building!"

But it was too late.

All it took was one more Krak missile, impacting by luck or by skill against a ground-floor wall of the already perilous building. The building seemed to shrink, collapsing on itself at an almost leisurely pace. A cloud on dust was flung up, obscuring everything and the shooting died down.

Hikaru could not move. He could only stare at the pile of rubble that was the final resting place of Squad Katsuyori. Even as the shooting began again, he could not tare his gaze away.

A sudden movement shocked his mind back into action. He saw some of the rubble fall away to reveal a dark-red helmet.

Hikaru darted forward, ignoring Brother-Takato's call for him to desist. Leaping over lumps of concrete from which the jagged ends of broken reinforcement girders reached to tear his legs open, ignoring the bolter shells smacking into the debris all around him.

After what seemed like an age, he reached his struggling comrade, and was more than a little surprised to find Brother Takato hot on his heels. While Takato covered them with his plasma gun, Hikaru brushed away the debris and hauled out the marine, who turned out to be Sergeant Katsuyori himself.

"Brother…Sergeant," Katsuyori's voice was distorted somewhat, the effect of concrete dust clogging up his vox-caster.

"We must retreat, Brother-Sergeant," Hikaru replied gravely. The Angels of Vengeance had secured the mound and while one squad gave covering fire from the top, more came boiling down the mound, overwhelming the Crimson Guardians' fire by sheer weight of numbers and forcing them further back.

"No!" Katsuyori bellowed, struggling to his feet. "We must hold them!" He scrambled across the debris in the direction of the enemy. Hikaru ran after him, doing his best to avoid the enemy fire.

And then he realised that they were not firing at him, or at Katsuyori, or at his squad. He suddenly perceived a familiar sound, the sound of anti-grav engines at full power. He spun around to see a single red Landspeeder racing towards them at breakneck speed. Overjoyed, Hikaru turned again to see that the Angels had ceased their advance and turned their guns against this new threat.

Seeing his chance, Hikaru turned towards his squad, opening his mouth to shout the order to turn and face, the explosion above and behind him sounding dim and unreal.

"CONFLAGRATUM!"

A screeching crescendo filled his ears. He saw the Angels beginning to scatter, his squad diving for cover. He felt something take hold of him from behind and push him to the ground, its weight pinioning him. He suddenly realised who the voice belonged to.

But then there was no sound, his enhanced ears blocking out the sonic devastation as the crippled Landspeeder struck the mound.

Then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. Hikaru pushed the strange weight off as his senses returned, looking around to see what had happened.

It was then that he realised what, or rather who, that weight had been.

Shuddering, utterly overcome, Hikaru fell to his knees. He reached forward and cradled the scorched and broken body of Brother Takato.

"Brother," his voice was so hoarse as to be barely audible.

"Brother-Sergeant…" Takato croaked through blackened lips. "The…others…"

"They are alive, brother," and it was true, for Hikaru could see the remaining Crimson Guardians picking themselves up. Of the enemy, he could see only black-armoured bodies scattered around what remained of the mound. The attack had been halted, but at what cost?

"I'm…sorry, Brother-Sergeant," Takato spoke again, gagging and spitting blood. "I've…failed you."

"No brother," Hikaru replied, trying to sound as confident as he had once been. "It is not over yet."

"It is…for me…" Takato shivered, spasms of pain wracking his ruined body. "I have…always…followed you…Brother-Sergeant. On every campaign…through every battle…across a thousand planets. But this time…you must leave… me behind."

"No!" Hikaru did not want to believe it. He did not want to have to accept it. Not after everything that they had endured. Was this their reward?

"I must go…" Takato went on, "to my account. The…Emperor is…waiting…to pass judgement on me. But someone must live…someone must endure…that is…the way of things."

Brother Takato reached out with what remained of his right hand. Hikaru took it in the warrior's grip and was surprised by the strength in it.

"We…cannot give…the Chapter…our due. Let our brethren," he coughed, "be recompensed," more spasms, "with blood."

And then, with a last shuddering breath, he was gone.

Was this what it meant to be a Space Marine? To suffer, to sacrifice, to rend one's own soul asunder, only to die like this?

Did all Space Marines endure this? Or was it merely his own shame, his own weakness? Was he worthy to be a Crimson Guardian? Or was he no better than the Angels of Vengeance. Hiding behind banners of long-forgotten glory, harking at purity of purpose lost in a mire of fear and selfishness. Did they understand anything? Did _he _understand anything?

Brother Takato had understood, as the Emperor had understood long ago, as he had wished all who followed him to understand.

"Nay, for he died for us," Hikaru whispered.

* * *

(Sorry for the delay, very heavy coursework. Thank you all very much for your reviews. I know that the death sequence is a tad corny, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. This has been the most difficult chapter thus far, as my experience in this kind of writing is somewhat limited, but I hope you like it. I intend to complete this story soon, and your input is much appreciated. Incidentally, the names I gave the Angels of Vengeance in this case are the names of angels from the Judeo-Christian-Islamic traditions. This is not intended to offend and I hope that this is not a problem for anyone. Until next time, please RR!)


	9. Semper fidelis, sed memento mori

_"It is said that the Imperium is founded upon the finest ideals of humanity. I say that to talk of ideals is naiveté. It is a simple fact that the human race is surrounded by those who wish to destroy it. Therefore, they must be destroyed to ensure that they never get the opportunity. Is this honour? No, for we have no right to speak of honour. Is this mercy? No, for we cannot afford mercy. Is this wisdom? Yes, for the grown man knows the environment in which he lives. It is not for us to seek honour or to show mercy, for those are ideals of humanity which I mentioned. We are born of humanity, and yet we are not of humanity, for all of us which is human is left behind. The Chapter is all that matters; for the Chapter was created to serve the Emperor. Forget all else but that."_

_Brother Captain Jophiel of the Angels of Vengeance Space Marines_

* * *

"I await your explanation, Interrogator-Chaplain."

It was all Interrogator-Chaplain Arbatel could do not to be intimidated. He had seen Brother-Captain Jophiel's anger before, but by the Emperor, never like this.

And the Captain had good reason to be angry. When he had not received the cue to teleport down with the First Company Terminators, he had become suspicious. Suspicion was soon replaced by anger when he received word that the advance had halted.

"One-hundred and ninety-one of our brothers slain," he said, when the Chaplain did not answer. "Is this the best that Angels of Vengeance can achieve?"

"My Lord," Arbatel had no explanation to offer, but he was honour-bound to try. "Our brothers did their best, as always they do."

"It was not enough!" Jophiel roared, the first real show of the fury within him. "How can justify such losses? Apothecary Mumiah reports that only thirty-two pairs of progenoids were recovered! _Thirty-two! _This is an utter disaster!"

"Were it not for the Fallen one, my Lord," Arbatel replied, doing his best to hide his own anger, "I would counsel retreat."

"No," Jophiel seemed to calm down. "We must finish this, here and now. When the men are ready, we will attack in force."

"Attack? Arbatel was shocked. "My Lord, we must wait until vehicles can be brought from the _Heart of Thunder_! We will surely crush them then!"

"We cannot afford to wait," the Captain replied, not looking at Arbatel but staring at a cleared space in what had once been a crossroads. Some of his marines had laid the recovered corpses of their comrades there, so that they could be collected more quickly later. Row upon row of black-armoured bodies lay on the ground, some missing limbs or sometimes even more, blood-spattered and stinking in the afternoon heat.

"As we made orbit, there was a momentary sensor blip on an out-system vector. Shortly afterwards an astrotelepathic communication was received, ordering us out of this system."

"On what authority?" Arbatel was indignant. "They dare to…!"

But he stopped suddenly as Jophiel took an ornate cylindrical canister from his waist. Holding it between his armoured thumb and forefinger, he offered it to the surprised Chaplain. Arbatel took it, opened it, and pulled out a roll of plas-paper, of the sort that a communication might be printed on.

Arbatel's skull-faced helmet hid any emotion as he read the communication. That is, until he saw the seal at the bottom.

His hand trembled, just slightly, but easily visible to Jophiel.

"Now do you understand?" he asked, as Arbatel rolled up the sheet and put it back in the canister. "We have six hours before they are within visual range."

"How?" Arbatel's voice, even masked by his vox-caster, sounded fearful. "How could they possibly know?"

"They have no proof," Jophiel replied, knowing this to be true. He had done the deed himself. "But it would be naïve to think that they would not investigate. If we tarry here a moment longer than necessary, things may become complicated beyond necessity or desire."

"I understand, my Lord." Shocked and cowed, Arbatel bowed his head. "I await your command."

"Send word to the _Heart of Thunder_," the Captain replied peremptorily. "They are to ready the Thunderhawks to extract us when called. If they receive no communication by the time our _guests _have entered visual range, then they are to leave immediately."

"I understand, my Lord."

"Then marshal our remaining brethren here. We will attack as soon as they are assembled."

As the Interrogator-Chaplain headed off, Jophiel turned to look up the street, at the other end of which were the Crimson Guardians; the enemy.

He was a magnificent sight. His bone-white Tactical-Dreadnought armour was one of a kind, slightly taller than the usual design, and embellished with rich ornamentation in gold and silver. It had been custom-constructed millennia ago for a great hero of his Chapter, and he had earned it driving Traitor Marines of the Alpha Legion from the Gilead system. In his right hand he carried an enormous power sword, razor sharp and polished to a mirror sheen, highlighting the delicate inlaid circuitry. In his left hand he carried a storm bolter, the double-barrelled relative of the standard boltgun, painstakingly crafted by his Company's artificers.

Jophiel regarded the distant enemy, the setting sun behind him, and planned the attack that would finish this affair once and for all.

* * *

Chaplain Yukio surveyed the remains of the Third Company, doing his best to resist despair.

Out of one hundred Crimson Guardians, not counting officers, only thirty-one remained. The rest lay dead in the ruins; beyond retrieval, beyond salvation.

They had sold their lives dearly, of course. The Angels of Vengeance, who sought their deaths for the crime of harbouring a fallen one, had come with three times as many, and yet their advance had stalled. Someone had called the retreat, giving the Crimson Guardians time to consolidate what little they had left.

Yukio could only just see them. Black-armoured specks moving through the rubble, far out of range. Their Thunderhawks had performed magnificently, smashing the Crimson Guardians' vehicles with terrible precision and speed, although three smoking wrecks were testimony that those victories were not without cost.

Cost. That was all that was left, to be a costly victory.

There was no hope of escape. If the Angels of Vengeance attacked again today, and Yukio knew that they would, then the Third Company would surely be overwhelmed. Nothing remained but to make the enemy pay in blood for every step they took, to pay in kind for every Crimson Guardian who fell.

But they would not give up. No matter how many died, the Angels of Vengeance would not retreat. Too much was at stake.

Yukio knew this. He had been there when Adamar had told them the dire secret that the sons of the Lion had been protecting for thousands of years. The Dark Angels and their brethren had no fear of death in the preservation of the secret, for to allow the secret to be revealed would be to risk utter destruction.

He scanned his eyes over the remnants of the Third Company. Terminator Squad Ashitaka was intact, though battle-weary. Squad Harunobu had been completely wiped out, as had Squads Yoshitaka and Kusonoki. Assault Squads Masamori and Tokimune had suffered such high casualties that it was more efficient to simply merge them, though the new squad was under-strength even then. Squad Nobunaga was down to seven marines, having suffered the least of all. Brother-Sergeant Hikaru had brought only four marines back, along with Brother-Sergeant Katsuyori. The Dreadnought Shikanosuke, armour pitted and dented, provided the only heavy firepower.

Hikaru was without his helmet and his face betrayed nothing, but Yukio nonetheless recognised a soul in torment.

It was something all Space Marines had to face sooner or later. The test of faith, the test of sensibility, the test that came from within. Such was the might of a Space Marine that he might all too easily come to believe himself invincible. He might fight for decades, be promoted through the ranks for his skills, lead his men in battle after battle without ever suffering a casualty. In so doing, no matter how well indoctrinated he might be, he would begin to think himself untouchable, above the fate of man.

It was a dangerous way of thinking, despite the importance of maintaining self-confidence, but never more dangerous than when it was finally proved wrong. The self-doubt, the guilt, the fear of failure. All these combined to test faith and commitment. One would never become a true Space Marine until this trial had been overcome.

"What news?" Yukio's reverie was disturbed by a familiar voice. He did not need to look around to know who it was.

"We are all that remains, Brother-Captain" Yukio replied. "I'm sorry Lord, but I fear our cause is hopeless."

"If there is no means of escape," Senshiro replied gravely, " then we fight to the death. If die we must, then let us make them suffer for their victory."

"How is our guest?" It was obvious to whom the Chaplain was referring. Senshiro did not reply, but simply turned to regard the fallen Angel, who was standing off to one side, staring down one of the rubble-strewn streets, his face grim.

"A change has come over him," the Chaplain remarked.

"I know," the Captain replied.

All around them the remnants of the Third Company prepared for the final battle. Marines prepared their weapons and armour, lubricating mechanisms with consecrated oil, wiping dirt, dust and blood away. The air was thick with the smell of battle; blood, sweat, cordite, concrete dust, promethium. Above them, the sun was descending, touching the horizon. Soon the night would come.

For them there would be no dawn.

* * *

"We are beginning the final approach, my Lord."

There was no response.

"My Lord?"

"I heard you, Jubelo," came the reply. Although the occupant of the Captain's chair was barely visible, it was hard for Jubelo to look at it. The shadows about the chair seemed to stare back at him whenever he did.

He knew what hid within those shadows. How could he not know? The one who led him and his fellows into battle. The one who could see the Imperium, the universe, for what it really was. The one who would heal the schism.

Yet every time he looked, he was reminded of how little he knew. Even if he could see past those shadows, into the hooded face, would he ever see? Would he ever know?

Did he want to know?

"A considerable risk," commented one of his fellows, though he could not make out who. "To exit the warp so close to that other ship."

"It was necessary, Ishmael," the shadows replied. "We were too close for the Battle-Barge to detect us. They must not know that we are here if we are to succeed."

Jubelo, unable to resist, turned back to the main hologram projector, which showed a representation of the vessel in whose shadow they hid.

It was a battleship of Imperial construction, vast and baroque. Its guns were framed by ornate arches. Upon the ebony prow was mounted a vast aquila. The engines were a distant glow, propelling the enormous construct to its intended destination.

It seemed so vast when compared with their own small craft, which was barely large enough to be warp-capable. It was by skill, luck, and the strange technologies with which it was equipped, that they had managed to avoid detection.

"Jubelo, what of the long-range scanning?" The voice betrayed no emotion, but the threat was obvious. "I did not bring you here to stand and stare."

"Of course…my Lord," Jubelo spluttered, inwardly cursing his weakness, and turned back to his console. On the central screen was the information coming in from the servitors, upon which he and his brethren relied to run most of the ship's functions. Finally the report was complete.

"Decoding complete, my Lord. One of our brethren is down there as you suspected."

"Do they mention a name?"

"Adamar, my Lord."

"Is that all?"

"Not much else is decipherable, my Lord….Forgive me." It was all Jubelo could do not to tremble. He could feel those eyes staring out at him; cold, ancient, pitiless.

"Do not blame yourself Jubelo," came the voice, and Jubelo would have sighed with relief had he not known better. Telepathic communications, even those with relatively little protection, were difficult to intercept at the best of times. Retrieval of them after they had already been sent was even harder, sifting through scattered remnants of thought and emotion.

"There was some sort of psychic disruption going on down there," he went on, nonetheless feeling that he had to offer some explanation. As he turned to look at the chair again, he froze as its occupant stood up and walked purposefully towards him.

The armour was black and ancient, like his, swathed in a white robe. He stood to attention by the console as his Lord stepped up, his entire body trembling inside his armour.

He cursed himself again for his weakness. He had never felt anything like this in the old days, before the destruction of everything he held dear, before Luther. But centuries of wandering the galaxy in shame and desolation had taken its toll. He had been weakened, in mind, soul and body, starved of companionship and spiritual comfort.

That is, until _they _had found him. Others like himself; victims of treachery, hunted relentlessly by their own kind, his brothers.

"So…this is the Maximillian Protocol we've heard so much about."

"Maximillian Protocol? What is that?" Jubelo had never heard of such a thing.

"Of course…" his Lord replied, with what might have been a laugh. "You've been away for so long. I'm not surprised that you haven't heard of it."

The Maximilian Protocol was a relatively recent addition to the Imperium's arsenal. Named for the Inquisitor who had pioneered it, the Protocol involved using trained psykers to create psychic disruption over a particular area; what communications experts might call 'white noise'. Its use had cost Maximilian the lives of many of the freshly harvested psykers he had requisitioned, along with several of the astropaths needed to focus the power and concentrate the disruption. Experiments conducted later on a far larger scale had cost the lives of hundreds of participants. However, the technique not only made the use of psychic abilities extremely difficult, but also prevented telepathic communications from escaping the affected area. The effects could take some time to wear off.

"May I speak, my Lord?" If he did not voice his feelings now, Jubelo knew, he would only end up voicing them later, in a manner far less amenable.

"Speak then, Jubelo," his Lord replied reasonably, straightening up from the console.

"My Lord…an entire Battle-Barge of our enemies awaits us, yet you would have us risk their wrath for the sake of one individual. I…"

He trailed off as the hooded face to regard him.

"You ask me" it said, after a soul-wrenching pause. "You ask me why."

"My Lord…"

"Perhaps you would have us leave him behind? Another Black Pearl for another pretentious fool who seeks his own salvation through the agony of his own brothers."

"My Lord…"

"Have a care, Jubelo," the voice was as cold as he had ever known it. "I could just as easily have left you to your fate, but I rescued you."  
"Yes…my Lord. I apologise for my churlishness."

"You are forgiven, Jubelo," his Lord headed back to the chair. "As all of us shall be; when our task is completed."

* * *

(Can you guess who this character is? And who else has turned up to complicate things? I'm sorry if the explanation of the Maximilian Protocol seems ill-timed, but it seemed like a good idea. I will do my best to complete this story soon, and your questions will be answered. Thank you all for reviewing thus far.) 


	10. Libera nos ad mortam aeternam, domine

(After a comment by 'SpecialGuy', I decided to respond. I have actually read 'Angels of Darkness, and my opinion is that both Lion El'Jonson _and_ Luthor went bad for unknown and probably very different reasons. As stated in the book, the destruction of Caliban was caused as much by confusion and the spreading of misinformation as anything else. The point made that this may only have been Astelan's personal opinion is valid, and I have made a tribute to both reviewer and author that you will recognise if you read carefully. That said, I value all my reviewers equally, and this final chapter is a salute to you all. _Ave Imperator, _or whatever you prefer.)

_"Arbites, there is no retreat, and no possibility of rescue, only death at the claws of the heretics that seek to defile this place. This we cannot prevent, but we shall die trying, for that is the duty of the Arbites! We are the guardians of the Emperor's law, and we must not fail in our duty!_

_Stand! For the Emperor's will is unflinching!_

_Stand! For the Emperor's light cannot be put out!_

_Stand!_ _For the Emperor's law is absolute!"_

_Last recorded words of an unknown Arbites Proctor_

* * *

The air was filled with the sound of gunfire, punctuated by cracks as bolter shells impacted uselessly against the forward armour of the two remaining Angels of Vengeance Dreadnoughts. They returned fire, Bachiel spitting a volley of missiles at the mounds of rubble behind which the Crimson Guardians took cover. Hamaliel's assault cannon peppered the mounds with bullets, throwing back any who rose to return fire.

In relative safety behind the two machines, Brother-Captain Jophiel strode along the boulevard, flanked by his forty First-Company Terminators: Squads Verchael, Cassiel, Penuel and Sachiel. Behind them came the remaining Tactical Squads, apart from a few he had sent scrambling through the ruins on either side of the Boulevard. If they got the timing right, and he was certain that they would, the Crimson Guardians would be outflanked.

Not that it was really necessary. The defenders possessed nothing more powerful than a plasma gun and the power fists of their Terminator squad. Losses would be minimal so long as no more mistakes were made.

Behind, the disgraced Interrogator-Chaplain strode at the head of Squad Cassiel. It was almost as though he was trying to stay out of Jophiel's way. Since it was he who had been in command of the disastrous first assault, such behaviour would be understandable.

The Dreadnoughts advanced, humming and clanking, weapons blazing at the red-armoured Space Marines who had the effrontery to stand against them. Bolter shells pitted their armour, doing nothing more than ruin the paintwork.

In the end, it was only the mounds themselves that halted their advance, as between them the rubble heaps completely blocked the boulevard. Denied their enemies, the Dreadnoughts tore at the rubble with their power fists, the Marines coming to a halt behind them.

Beyond, the Crimson Guardians took the opportunity to retreat, knowing that their best chance lay in killing the Angels of Vengeance at a distance. They had been pushed back to a wide plaza at which two streets intersected, leaving them with little if any cover. Captain Senshiro and his Command Squad took up position in the centre of the plaza, with the red-armoured Tactical Marines forming a barrier between them and the Angels of Vengeance. In the centre of the line stood Terminator Squad Ashitaka, storm-bolters aimed at the mounds, power fists humming.

Black-armoured Tactical Marines swarmed over the mounds, firing their weapons as they came. The Crimson Guardians returned fire, dropping a few of the attackers but doing little to stem the tide. Interrogator Chaplain Arbatel was at its head, emptying his bolt pistol into the thin red line as he sprinted forward. Smoke-grenades tinkled as they struck the flagstones, sending up white clouds to blind the defenders.

Then the tide came to a halt as the Angels of Vengeance came into the desired range. Rather than engage in melee combat for which they were not equipped, the Tactical Squads stood and fired, pouring bolter shells, plasma and flame into the Crimson Guardians. There would be no foolish mistakes this time.

Senshiro knew it was hopeless. His few surviving marines could not survive such a weight of fire. There was only one thing to do.

With an incoherent cry of despair and rage, he ripped his power sword from its scabbard and dashed forward. As one the surviving Crimson Guardians did likewise, charging into the billowing smoke. They knew that they were going to die, that there was no possibility of rescue. All that remained was to die like Space Marines.

And make the Angels of Vengeance and their brethren curse the day they picked a fight with the Crimson Guardians.

The Angels of Vengeance were ready for them, pouring fire into their charging enemies for as long as they could. Then red and black clashed; kicking, punching, head-butting.

Squad Ashitaka did the most damage, striking left and right with their power fists, tearing through armour, flesh, and bone. All the while their black-armoured enemies swarmed around them, beating and clawing uselessly at the scuffed and bolt-scarred Terminators. To their left the Dreadnought Shikanosuke waded into the Tactical Squads, scattering them as they tried to avoid the machine's deadly fist and armoured legs.

Behind them, Brother-Captain Jophiel had managed to reach the top of a somewhat-reduced mound. He watched the scene in mounting frustration.

_"I don't care if he is an Interrogator-Chaplain,"_ he thought bitterly. _"I'll kill him myself when this is over. He'll buy no black pearl with the blood of my men."_

Although his two Dreadnoughts were still clawing at the mounds, Jophiel could see that they had made enough of a gap to allow his Terminators through. He scrambled down the mound, ordering them to follow.

Time to clean up this mess before even more of his command was lost.

* * *

Adamar brought his chainsword down, the jagged teeth slicing though the exposed neck. Blood sprayed skyward as the marine ceased to struggle. No time for reflection though, as two more Angels of Vengeance charged out of the smoke. Although they had no idea of who or what he was, they had been ordered to take him alive. This was their misfortune, for as they tried to lay hands on him, Adamar fought back. They dared not harm him, but Adamar was not so bound.

It did not take much to dispatch them. Despite being full Space Marines, they were mere novices by comparison. They had not endured what he had endured, seen what he had seen, done what he had done. He had been wading through alien and traitor blood thousands of years before these whelps were even born.

As they lay twitching and bleeding, Adamar looked left and right, seeking his enemies. He had been forced to discard his helmet, and though smoke still clouded everything, he could still hear the crack of boltguns, the clump of heavy boots on flagstones, the screams of the dying.

"Surrender, Fallen One. There is no escape."

Adamar turned slowly, knowing with sickening certainty who it was.

The Interrogator-Chaplain came to a halt a short distance from him, bolt pistol at the ready, his face unreadable behind the skull-masked helmet.

"I am Arbatel, Interrogator-Chaplain to his Imperial Majesty's Chapter Astartes, the Angels of Vengeance, and I hereby place you under arrest. You will surrender yourself."

"All this over me" Adamar replied sorrowfully, knowing how his enemy would answer. "You killed them just to get at me."

"In pursuit of the Fallen, no sacrifice is too great!" the Chaplain replied with triumphal fervour. "Your friends were damned when they chose to protect you, when they chose to interfere in our pursuit of salvation! What did you expect? Did you think that we would spare them? Did you think that we would forgive them for their hubris? For thinking that they were _our_ equals!"

"You have committed fratricide!" Adamar spat back, rage replacing sorrow. "I told them the truth and you killed them for it! All to protect a secret! I understand now what Astelan meant, and I see the truth of it in this bloody episode!"

Adamar raised his bloodied chainsword and pointed it at the Interrogator-Chaplain.

"I would rather go unto the Emperor with these whom you have slain than accept your poisoned chalice! It is _you_ who are the Fallen, not I!"

"Silence!" the Chaplain roared, shaking with anger. "You _will _be redeemed! You _will not_ bring his wrath down upon us!"

"You deserve nothing better!" Adamar screamed in rage and exultation. "You replaced his truth with lies! His light with darkness! YOU ARE TRAITORS!"

With a howl of fury, the Chaplain flung his bolt pistol aside and charged.

They fought like men possessed, the only sound in their ears the clash of steel on steel, their only thought to survive, their only wish to kill. The struck and blocked and parried, Crozius Arcanum against chainsword, blows glancing off shoulders and elbows. The experience of hundreds of years against the fury of the fanatic.

But the experience was not enough as, after what seemed like an eternity, Adamar began to tire. Arbatel saw his chance and swung the Crozius one last time. The head, fashioned into the shape of an Imperial aquila, struck Adamar's blade and broke it in two, the shorn end clattering away across the flagstones. The Crozius continued to fall, momentum and gravity bringing it down onto Adamar's unprotected chest plastron, tearing through the ceramite and knocking him to the ground.

Arbatel pulled his weapon free, ignoring the sparks that leapt up from the jagged hole. Adamar lay where he had fallen, breathing heavily, utterly exhausted.

"Kill me," he gasped. "I am of no use to you now."

"Oh no, Fallen one," Arbatel replied, unable to keep a hint of satisfaction out of his tone. "This is nothing compared to what will be inflicted upon you soon. That is, if you do not repent."

"I will never repent!" Adamar snarled, though defiance was all he had left. "My soul is not your plaything!"

Arbatel shook his head in apparent resignation.

"How little you know, Fallen one."

A plasma bolt struck the Chaplain in the shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways, Adamar tried to look, but could not move his head far enough. Arbatel struggled to his feet, snarling with rage as Captain Senshiro strode forward, plasma pistol aimed straight at him.

"You will not stand in my way, Crimson Guardian."

"I am already dead," Senshiro replied, his face impassive. "My men await me where the Emperor is. I will die in better comfort if I know that I have thwarted you."

"DAMN YOU!"

Arbatel charged, howling with rage and swinging his Crozius. Senshiro dropped the plasma pistol and leapt at the enraged Chaplain, his right hand flashing to the hilt of his power sword.

Time seemed to slow as they passed each other. Senshiro halted, staring straight ahead, his face screwed up in concentration.

Arbatel staggered, wondering why he suddenly felt so weak. His fingers were numb, so numb that he barely felt the Crozius Arcanum slip free and fall the ground. He glanced down with blurring eyes, and saw the blood splattering on the flagstones.

There was no pain. It was strange, he thought, how little sensation there was. He barely heard the crash as he slumped to the ground.

Nothing.

* * *

"No…not now!"

Senshiro was confused. He turned, wondering who had spoken, and saw that it was Adamar, still lying prone. He was surrounded by column of intense white light. Electricity crackled about it, earthing itself in the ground. There was a metallic taste in the air.

"No…you can't…CYPHER!"

The light faded, and where he had lain, there were only the crushed flagstones.

Senshiro knew what had happened. He felt better for it. The weight that had lain on him since the beginning of the whole affair was lifted.

The smoke was gone now. Everywhere Senshiro looked, there were either dead Crimson Guardians or living Angels of Vengeance. They stood in a ragged line across the plaza, hemming him in, weapons trained and ready. Behind them, Senshiro saw the two dreadnoughts standing next to a heap of wreckage that had once been Shikanosuke.

He looked up as the black-armoured Terminators stood aside. Captain Jophiel strode forward, his white armour battered and drenched in blood. He glanced at the body of the Interrogator-Chaplain, then stared at Senshiro. All was silent apart from the whistling of the wind between the ruined buildings.

"He was consumed by hatred. He did not understand." Jophiel gestured with his blood-encrusted sword at the dead Arbatel.

"But I do, Crimson Guardian. I do indeed."

The boltguns opened fire.

* * *

"Are they following us?"

"No Lord. They have not even detected us."

"Excellent. This mission has been a complete success."

And it had. Not only had they rescued Adamar, but they had done so without loss of life.

At least, no loss to themselves.

"I know what you are thinking, Jubelo. There was nothing you, I, or any of us could have done for them. Do not dwell on their deaths."

Although the words held neither emotion nor sympathy, Jubelo did his best to draw comfort from them. Sacrifice was necessary from time to time, and every Fallen Angel saved from the grip of the Unforgiven improved their chances of success beyond measure. The Crimson Guardians had not died in vain.

Jubelo looked up at the sound of footsteps and saw Ishmael enter the Bridge.

"Report, Ishmael," came the voice from the throne.

"Our guest was not seriously damaged," Ishmael replied. "He is in confinement, weeping for his friends," he added contemptuously.

"The deaths of brave men deserve tears!" Jubelo snarled, irritated by his comrade's churlishness.

"Not from us," Ishmael retorted in the same contemptuous tone. "We have better things to be doing!"  
"It is not his fault," the voice spoke up, defusing the confrontation instantly. "His psycho-indoctrination has not been renewed in hundreds of years. Neither of you were any different when I found you."

The memory was not an easy one to bear. Although Space Marines were physically above and beyond ordinary men, it was the psycho-indoctrination that truly made them superhuman, inuring them to pain, fear, doubt, and sorrow.

But even Space Marines could be worn down. The things they witnessed and endured would drive even the most maladjusted human beyond the imaginable limits of psychosis. It was fortunate that the process could be repeated as often as necessary, allowing even the most active Space Marines to maintain their sanity for hundreds of years. Adamar's emotional breakdown was a blessing by comparison to what might have happened.

An insistent noise brought Jubelo's attention back to his console.

"My Lord, we are receiving a communication." Jubelo stared, mystified, as the information scrolled down the screen. "A hyper-light signal."

"Clear the bridge."

They obeyed, leaving their stations and filing silently out. They knew better than to argue.

Once they were all gone, the figure touched a button on the armrest of the throne. Before him, a holographic image shimmered into view. The head and shoulders of an aging human male, its hair long and pure white, its face wearing an expression of undisguised loathing.

"Cypher…" the head spoke first. "I trust that everything has gone to plan?"

"It has, Lord Valarafir," Cypher replied. "I have the one I wanted and your son Valarion is on his way home."

"My_ son,"_ Valarfir snarled, "is barely alive, thanks to your scheme. My servant reports that he is in critical condition."

"He's a big boy now," Cypher said sarcastically. "Big enough to make his own stupid mistakes. Perhaps you should have sent his nurse with him."

"Curse you _abomination_!" the head snapped. "I am beginning to wonder why I made this bargain!"

"You know why. You wanted Damarose dead, and so he is. Your attack on the planet drew the Crimson Guardians, who obliged you by killing him and managed to protect Adamar long enough for me to arrive. Thus, Lord Valarafir, we are even."

There was a long pause, then the head cleared its holographic throat.

"If my son dies," it said at last, with the careful control of the utterly enraged, "I will pursue you to the ends of the Universe."

The hologram disappeared.

_

* * *

_

_A few hours later_

Inquisitor Denathril surveyed the ruins, trying not to despair.

For nearly six years he had pursued this lead; asking questions, pulling strings, calling in favours, torturing unfortunates to death for the smallest clue.

But once again the trail had gone cold. The killers of Inquisitor Constantine would go unpunished for a little longer.

Only a little longer. Denathril had sworn to find those responsible for the venerable Inquisitor's murder or die trying. Emperor-willing, there would be some clue in this dead place.

Scattered through the town, four-hundred black-uniformed soldiers scoured the ruins. They were his to use as he saw fit, a resource granted to him by the Inquisition to better execute his duties. Officially it had been in reward for his defeat of the techno-heretic Heisenschaft, but Denathril knew the real reason.

They wanted Constantine's killers found, for they had loved the old man almost as much as he did. Constantine had taken him when all others had refused, trained him, and been like the father he barely remembered.

That little encounter with the Angels of Vengeance on Caliostro had planted the seeds of suspicion in his mind, and the Inquisitor's death a few weeks later had confirmed them.

They would pay. By the Golden Throne, by the Primarchs, by all the Saints, they would pay for what they had done.

But Denathril could do nothing without evidence. The Inquisition was all-powerful, but taking on a Space Marine Chapter without proof of wrongdoing would create too many problems. The Inquisition knew from the example of Huron Blackheart how dangerous rogue Space Marines could be.

But the Angels of Vengeance were not the only Space Marines involved. He had pursued one of their Battle-barges into this system, only to spot a similar vessel heading away from the planet called 'Picard's Landing' at full speed, just before his own battleship, the _Absolution, _could get close enough to identify it.

To add the macabre to the mysterious, he had landed on the planet to find a town full of dead Space Marines. Apart from ascertaining that they were of the Crimson Guardians Chapter and that they had been killed by Imperial-pattern weaponry, he had found nothing else. If the Angels of Vengeance had been responsible for the massacre, along with that of the colonists, then they had covered their tracks well.

From his vantage point atop the shell of a ruined hab-block, his dark eyes scanned the ruins, wondering just what he had gotten himself involved in. He did not look as footsteps approached him from what remained of the stairwell.

"My Lord, come quickly. We've found something.'

The corpse was pale-skinned with delicate, almost elfin, features. Its perfectly-muscled body was clad in a blue body-stocking with decoration in patterns Denathril did not recognise. The only things marring its perfection were the holes in its torso, most likely made by shell fragments.

What was truly strange was that it was found lying on the floor of one of the red-painted Land-Raiders, as though the vehicle's users had wanted it to be found.

"Xenos creature?" Denathril asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.

"I should say so," replied Magos Petrovitch. The Magos scanned the body with characteristic precision, his bionic eyes focusing and refocusing. Not enough of his face remained to make any kind of expression; but if there had been, it would have been one of intense concentration.

"These readings are most unusual," he said eventually, his voice as emotionless and mechanical as his visage. "This fluid appears to be made up of artificial cells, though I cannot discern their purpose. I cannot detect any remains of internal organs, at least not according to human biochemistry."

"That's all you can tell me?"

"Without a full autopsy, I fear so."

"Then bag it up and take it to the ship, along with any others you find, and take those too," he gestured at the wrapped bundles placed in an open weapons locker. "They wanted us to find them, so it would be rude not to."

He stepped out of the Land Raider as Petrovitch and two soldiers obeyed. Looking around, he saw another of his companions. The tall, pale-skinned man was watching a team of soldiers collect the bodies of the red-armoured Space Marines.

"It's too bad, Tiberius," the man said as Denathril reached him. His colourless eyes were full of sorrow.

"I know, Rax," Denathril replied.

"They deserved better than this."

"They did, though I doubt that they would have said the same of you."

"I don't mind that, Tiberius."

Some in the Inquisition would have found this conversation very strange. Rax was an Afriel, created from the genetic material of an Imperial hero in a belated attempt to discover whatever it was that made that particular individual rise to greatness. Although the Afriel made excellent soldiers, they endured the irrational loathing of just about everyone else.

That an Inquisitor would make use of an Afriel was understandable, but for them to be on first-name terms was unheard of. For most humans it would be like an untouchable trying to befriend an astropath.

Denathril, however, did not care. Rax had proved himself a most excellent soldier, worthy companion, and loyal friend. He would not spurn the albino over petty ignorance and prejudice.

"My Lord! This one's alive!"

Inquisitor and abhuman rushed over to where a sergeant and two soldiers were crouching by one of the fallen Space Marines.

"He's alive, but barely," said the Sergeant, drawing Denathril's attention to the auspex with which he was scanning the body. "Faint heartbeat and practically no breathing. If I hadn't scanned twice I wouldn't have noticed."

Denathril focussed on the Space Marine, concentrating the powers of his mind onto the fallen warrior. His psychic abilities would soon reveal the truth.

Yes. Life yet remained, but not for much longer.

"Get him to the ship immediately! Tell Doctor Franke to keep him alive at any cost!"

The End

(Finished at last. I took lots of time in order to make it a good ending. Was it? I can change it if it was not, so please tell me. I am considering adding a 'notes' chapter after this to explain anything you want explained, including any info on the Crimson Guardians you would like. If you want some information included, other than previously stated, please tell me in your reviews!)


End file.
